The Pringles
The stained glass window is lovely
From the outside
As the sun shines through
It reveals beautiful shades of
Blue, red, green and white
But the glass cannot contain
What lies within
Lurking among the creaky pews
And above the wooden floors
Are the Pringles
The women sit
Backs up straight, ankles crossed
White gloves on hands to hide
Their crimson, red claws
The men pretend
They like to talk
Of the weather, sports and news
The air is cold
The tension, fierce
And all the while
A woman stands, alone
In a corner
Glancing around timidly
Her eyes resting
On a statue
Of Jesus
Crucified
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