or maybe it is just the same blouse every Sunday.
his beard pools around his face in a tear like fashion to such a degree,
worries must be hanging by his hair.
his body built out of toothpicks,
or maybe carved out of sapling branches?
moving in the awkward fashion of a cowboy standing by
the clocktower at noon in a black and white movie.
he peers out with eyes that are his,
towards a world that isn’t.
what treachery must he feel,
knowing the womb he was birthed from,
is a dust like substance,
smelling like saturated gray,
settling beside the bones
in his mother’s coffin.
standing politely alone,
always fifteen minutes early,
even though the pews stand empty,
and when he kneels it is on fire,
when he stands it is on brimstone,
why in the empty room,
does he wait to be seated?
one can only wonder if he is waiting for an invitation?
he stands in the back of the church