One poem by Michael Lee Johnson

Common Church Poem

Sitting here in the pew

splinters in my butt

hours in prayer begging

Jesus for a quiet life.

Breathing here is so quiet,

so alone, so unnoticed,

so simple, you can hear Saints

cleaning my eardrums

so I can hear the scandals

of my wickedness-

crying here seems a

form of sadistic laughter.

Where is the priest, masturbating at home?

Is he bleaching down the walls

inside his confessional?

Is he out selling cassette tapes, reaping in riches,

spewing glibness, condensing remarks to those

in office, those in need of counsel.

Is that woodpecker I hear outside pecking my brain, calling me insane

or tapping out a new set of rosary beads, or a chisel and crowbar

to break my sins free?