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?

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