He prays like the hopeless,
the way their fingers lace across
a bottle or a waist—forgetful.
His church sits somewhere close,
close enough that you don’t have to
drink to drive. A pastor slurs
through the sermon, pouring
him a double. The congregation
roars, feeling sinless,
or spineless.
A passerby enters to hear
the word of god, but all
he finds are skirt-clad women
tripping on LSD.
“That way to Jesus,”
one of them laughs,
as she slips
into the bathroom,
a father’s arms
around her waist.