Sly Boys
The sparsity of congregants
reminds me of the absence
of jestful boys schooled
in the faux arts
of throwing hymnbooks
across the nave.
The smelters ran two shifts,
fed us beattitudes
of paid mortgages
and Sunday roast beef
as the school teemed every year
with five-year-olds.
Sidewalks buckle
atop the roots of oak canopies,
as the breath of traffic
grows sparer;
the psalms of our minister grow fainter.
In the tart air of early Spring
those sly boys
would cup a book in a palm
and pretend to launch it,
to the mortification of their mothers.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
