Sunday Dinner

With such regal pomp as might offend
The god he says he represents, the bishop
Blesses us. We leave his structure little
Changed. The sky remains remote and
Gray, our tables, in our lesser structures,
Bare. Our children beg for food. We
Cannot simply smile, as the bishop does,
And shuffle off to brandy and a comfy
Chair, a dinner and a book. We cannot
Conjure sustenance from air, as gods are
Said to do. Instead, we further cut the
Portions, shrinking blessings, offered
Without pomp.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 15 times
Written on 2012-02-08 at 15:02

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