Church in the Morning
When my imagination moves off
it seems incredible, astounding,
like a church that walks away,
a holy place that plays hide-n-seek,
a blank canvas with a paint resistant surface.
It feels like god
plays peek a boo
with me every morning.
I’m sitting in church drinking coffee
this morning. I wanted her to say something
— anything—
but it’s silent and Jesus is looking at me
sardonically,
Mary has a look of blank, stony pity,
and Joseph, who could teach me to build
— something—
(I want to build anything right now)
has gone down to the pub with some mates.
I guess he won’t be helping me this morning.
My mind is mossy and one would
ready for imagination to grow something in it,
but the moss has dried up. It looks dead
but moss rarely dies, it just sleeps,
waiting for the next rain and the great rebirth.
I wonder if imagination is at the pub
with that damned difficult carpenter, Joseph,
often just called Joe
(or JoJo the knucklehead behind his back).
Maybe they’ll come back just drunk enough
to show me how to build something truly original.
