(for Julie Brumley)
I saw you (as I often do) at Mass–
one of the many people in the pews.
But to my heart you always come as news.
“Julie!” the headline reads. Then, oh, alas,
the homilist grows eager to harass
my wits with error! No, I do not snooze.
Rather, I fume at how these guys abuse
the gospel with their mumbles, crude and crass.
Afterward, I’m so pissed that I can’t talk
to anybody, let alone to you.
My voice would be a shout — or else a squawk.
Of my drift you would take a dismal view.
To the car, inarticulate, I walk.
This comes as a relief? Of course I knew.