My landlord asks that I go with him to church on Sundays

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To my ear, his lot sound like supervillains
bent on world domination,
using their enemy as a foot stool.

Sundays I’m fresh as morning dew.
Picture me strolling along the beach—
why ruin my buzz sitting indoors?

My landlord’s prophets sound like fatalists:
my future is mapped out. No need to think.
Might as well go to church, wait for instructions, um?

Say I believe in Armageddon, the slaughter of unbelievers.
Afterward, I’m promised a chance to joyfully kick back.
But I’m more likely to have traumatic flashbacks

that leave me breathless with panic.

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Totally relatable…I once went to a sermon given by a Baptist minister…hell/fire/damnation! Strolling a beach is a much better option. Great title. Never could get my head around Calvinism and predestination.

Phil

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Monsieur Belle-cher ( as Silent Lotus would say); . You might find this hard to believe, but I was thinking this morning, that I hadn’t read a new poem of yours in a while, and how much I would like to. And here it is.

I"m choosing my words carefully here… I like the ‘humor’ in the “why spoil my buzz” line? I agree, by the way.

And, I like the determination in the lines, I won’t be party to your prophesying or proselytizing, why the hell should the narrator?

Well done. Glad to read it.

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I absolutely agree with you and Tatterdemalion; Sunday is really the only day I can sleep in. (And yet I loved going to church as a kid. AS A KID.)

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