Best Parishioner Poems

the parishioner sits on my lap.
his little legs dangle, his
beat up sandals slip.

i raise his hand with mine.
he pulls it back.
i clap.
his hands, like bookends
put a stop to that.

silently my hands in play
weave together.
my thumbs become doors.
the pointers are steeples.
i open the doors —
the people...

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