choir

 

 

 

   I cannot sing

   though the Protestants

   enlisted me,

   saying I had a

   natural voice.

   Instead I try to

   blend, like

   milk-duds, left

   long in the wash,

   blends with the

   stitching.Our

   choir director,

   Mr. Gentry, all 300

   pounds of him, extols

   me,as

   a vampire might

   extol the dark. His

   abrade, with little

   relent, is for my

   Hebrew.

 

 

   I assume, his glide

   is that of a merchant-ship,

   in waters memorized by

   captains long before.

   Though one can see

   the scalloped edge of

   his panties or

   the bulge of his

   breastforms; a

   nectareous mercury

   he can no longer

   deny.

   His sissy, an alert

   to the inhabitants

   of God, sans

   Christian a plovers

   strategem.

 

 

   If the organist is lowest,

   you might hear me this Easter,

   afterwards in the dominion

   of the true

   or squawking as from

   the belly of a giant

   bird,

   waiting for fish..

Reviews

[Emily B]

I can see I"ll be reading your words on a real regular basis

[Leslie Philibert]

Enjoyed this poem, found a lot of acute, witty observations as well as a fine use of words,looking forwards to reading more, good work.