Pensacola

The parking lot is full each Sunday morning.
All the locals leave their cars to come inside
The unassuming, pre-fab metal church,
Not so much to receive grace as to alleviate
Their fear. God the Father's always crabby.
We, who've come to frolic here upon the beach,
Beneath the waves, from distant Sodoms
And Gomorrahs, seem so careless with
Our souls, drinking liquor, fornicating.
Those folks in the church will nod when
Pastor Prentice shouts that we will reap
The wages of our sins, plunging down
Into damnation when the Judgment Day
Has come, while they will rise. Until
That time, however, they're content to
Pocket our sins' wages, and buy pretty things.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 111 times
Written on 2017-07-19 at 16:37

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text