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.