I Sit in the Back Pew

I Sit In the Back Pew

At the funeral
I sit in the back pew
with the plain folk,
the bus drivers and custodians,
guys and gals with their names
stenciled above their front pockets.

I sit with them today
for one of them has died.

His widow sits in pew one
while the minister
in his fancy man's suit
mumbles bullshit from Scriptures,
"... the valley of the shadow of death..."

And I want to cry out,
"Hug her, (the widow, I mean)
you asshole.
We don't need no damn preaching to.
We don't need no damn savin'.
Hug her.
Console her.
Jesus would have."

Kind words.
Soft touch.
This is no time
for preachin' about
salvation, eternity,
and the world beyond.

Hug her.
Console her.
Raise her up with your words
of love.

But then I guess
we in the back pew
have a different perspective on religion
than someone who has spent life
reading mythology
and not pushing a broom,
lugging a wrench,
or shifting a gear.

On the way out
one of my fellow back pew'ers tells me,
"I hate funerals."

Amen, brother

May 2008