Matthew Dunphy Poet I do not know?

For Rent

there is no house of God.
but there is a single bedroom apartment of God.
televangelists asleep on the floor
the convent too, dozes -
their manic addresses bring slumber,
wearing pious housecoats
and their belief on their sleeves.
"no girls allowed," said in muttered acclaim
in plumes of verbal smoke, billowing
from loyalty, from unconscious tongues of chimney.
when they rise, rent must be paid.
bi-weekly in assembly,
payments of obedience; collected in baskets
passed from choirboy to choirboy with little question -
here there is no tolerance for question.
no drops of leeway beneath the leaking ceiling.
should other religions come knocking, the door is locked.
inside sneering outwardly,
narrowly, through a peephole
the occupants brimming with superiority.
clutching rosary beads, they sing their own tune
and fear and consider the landLord - He's vengeful.
He promises things, in His twisted sense of humour
and in the single bedroom apartment of God,
the tenants are terrified.

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