Posted in Rituals

Prey

Almost every sized church has them –
devout volunteers
acolytes performing sub-divine
sacred cleaning
preparations
custodial functions –
they did for many years
with dedication, devotion and piety.

A career defector in my 40’s
a refugee from ceremony,
faith prefers low-key weekday to high Mass Sunday.
Possibly it was the backpack –
imagination imagined a burglar’s sack in disguise
or the dishevelment, of weather, sweat and cycle helmet
was classified shifty.
Perhaps it was verisimitude – I looked like ….
or was reminiscent of …

They kept an eye on me – a very human eye
one that followed, vigilantly, hopefully, perhaps.
Once in an artefact lined side chapel
she stood half metre behind – to the left
I turned
at 45°, there he was – reinforcements if needed.
I stopped going, felt tainted, marked
someone found not guilty rather than innocent.

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Author:

Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.