I have known the unyielding support of a bench
especially when in rows, fatigue from his speech,
the weight of the book of Psalms, thin paper easily torn,
pencils too small for your hand, asking for penance,
obligating onlookers hoping for you to open your heart,
burning bibles smoking a hole through your soul,
Lonely widows wiping dust off their ring fingers,
Lament at the pew, heaviness in the bread and wine.
And I have seen so called miracles at his steps,
sent down from an unseen, intangible angel,
struck into the heart of the sick and fickle,
electrified within the congregation, down to the ground
they pray, holding the generic, diamand crucifix.
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