past Sunday

there is nothing here past Sunday, not here
no baptismal blessing, no
nothing but a wash bin and a soaking of callus
for here walks the failings
of my soul, the measure of my greed
as flesh eats of flesh
and a furrow produces fertile
or is long laid forgotten
my God is hand and muscle, my God is the pouring of sweat
cocked for earthly lust amid
the heat of a summers day - this is the God
i need - i leave prayer
for Sunday people, for all the long lost souls
lazy and fruitless -  for it is a heart
that groans that gives, that keeps you
come a godless winter
and quaffs the taste of forgiveness
as the taste of good a whiskey

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

posted for Magpie Tales