Sport 43: 2015
On Sundays, cats mewl for the parsons
who once imported palm branches
so Jesus would know they cared.
But not anymore.
That century’s gone, replaced
by a long and delicious summer
nobody has to earn, and
the people are missing again.
The parsons stay and record
the passing of days in the sacristy log
as the years grind their hearts
into a fine liquid powder.
They retire to dusty corners,
hollow marble halls, and
and deposit themselves as well,
and then wait like the stiff plaster
frontiersmen in the settlers museum
for someone to visit and point and say
Look how brave he was, and necessary.