I know an old man
Who during the week is a machine working at full throttle:
productivity would stall,
Spoil the master's high profit estimate,
if on Sunday he did not go to church
to recharge his spiritual batteries.
He never says his prayer in a velvet-cushioned pew
It would only be a whisper on God's ear.
He falls on raw knees
that smudge the bare floor with his piety.
He hits God's heart with screams as hard as stones
flung from the slingshot of his soul.
He takes the gilded communion plate with gnarled hands,
He lowers his eyes into the deep pond of serenity,
his brow rippling with devotion,
his ears enraptured by rustling silk vestments of the priest.
He drinks the Lord's blood from a golden chalice
With cracked lips thirsty for peace.
The acolyte comes around with a brass-coated collection plate
The old man sneaks in a cent piece
That raises a scowl on the collector's face
whose puckered nose sneezes at such poor generosity
instead of inhaling the aromatic incense smoke.
When the preacher stands up in the pulpit,
his voice fiery with holy fervour:
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.'
Themes and poetic device of an old man in church
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