Cursed is the one who churches on Sunday
Cursed is the man
who churches every Sunday and Wednesday.
Who puts always 10% in the plate.
Who never drinks or smokes.
Whose Double Windsor is the envy of the other elders.
Who holds staunchly to straight, republican virtues
and locks his heavy doors at night
so his entertainment center
will not be stolen.
He has insulated himself from his fears for so long
that he can no longer cry.
But constantly bites at his family in anger
when anything threatens
to wake up such uncertainty.
Blessed is the man
who goes to AA meetings
despite who he knows will find out.
Who dearly loves the daughter he had out of wedlock
but still opens the door to the clinic for her
because she swore she’d do it alone.
Who battles daily against a family tree of self-destruction
And knows he has only one hope.
And who offered his bed to the freezing vagabond
That approached him on the street last night.
But now he cries deeply, slumped against his dresser
because this morning he woke
And found his mother’s ring stolen,
And because he knows
even more will be taken
And it will not stop until God opens wide all his doors
and cleans out his whole heart.