Church, a free standing gymnasium.
Praise and worship team of one.
Today, Papa Donuts wears a suave vest.
Pastor Lewis once wore a wife beater
and swung at the police.
Pastor says we’re all dead inside.
That death is akin to riding a seatless bike.
That death is the sound of rain and falling.
It is the peculiar way mobile Jesus smiles
at me from his particle-board cross.
It is how my father died drunk and alone
in Hank’s used car lot. I drink Moscato now.
I am addicted to house music. Pastor Lewis believes
we are all addicted inside.
That there is hope for a few of us.
Last evening, I planted my lover’s La-Z-Boy
in the back yard, so I could enjoy less indoors.
My dogs believed they were digging to China.
Their hind legs flung soft soil in my face.
Love bugs floated fucking by. The sun dropped.
Yvonne Amey is an MFA poet from the University of Central Florida. Her work has appeared in Tin House, Rattle, Juked, Pleiades, and elsewhere.