Sunday morning roads

Sacred hearts bleeding to be seen;
In hues of red and gold and emerald green,
cottonwood blood spilt for the good of all.

I recall those Sunday morning roads;
The faithful so full of sin, others full of thirst and drought.
Our house a turbulent mess of do’s and don’ts
­            and I will and I wonts

The holier they were the bloodier the sins, we grinned.
Do you remember the hypocrisy of it all? The call to feed
the parade of greed dressed in robes of saints that guard golden gates

The bobbing on the feed line, eyes ahead but looking nonetheless
gay birds with souls divine who swoop to gorge on bread and wine
faces slashed with blood and rouge, snouts never out of the food trough

And smiles, Jesus Christ they could cut the air with the glare behind
­                                                   those eyes
and the “who are you now?”, and “don’t forget to bow!”
­        As they tut tut the knowhow

And there were we waiting for the Glory Be
and a rush for smoke and air

Do you remember those Sunday mornings now, do you even dare?

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

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