Eternal Afternoons–Memoirs of a Pastor’s Kid on Sunday

             Screened in on your back porch—

             you big and boring people

             who just learned my name

             while milling in the foyer

             after service.

             Now I’m stuck all afternoon

             at your house

             because someone has to

             feed the visiting pastor.

Photo Courtesy of Matt Gruber via creationswap.com 

             Under mom’s silent eye

             I fork a bitter, leafy ball.

             Chew and swallow.

             Chew and swallow.

             Victory.

             She nods and looks away.

             This somebody’s grandfather

             drones on, keeping time

             with the walnut clock

             whose ticking marches down the hall.

             If only I could be anywhere,

             everywhere else,

             but here.

             I envy the worms

             exploring realms of dirt

             under that grass roof.

             I wonder what the oak

             sees, peering over

             that green hill,

             and if a squirrel sleeps

             cradled on a branch.

             Dear God,

             please keep dad

             from napping—

             If I could just inhabit

             anything

             but this four feet of skin

             and this house of paisley chairs

             that whiffs of moth balls.

             I ask to be excused.

             The screen door scrapes.

             Manure greets me

             warm and heavy in the air

             as if it knows my name.

             I jump from stone to stone

             towards that oak.