Divine Dirt Quarterly

If I were a preacher, I’d ser­mo­nize
naked. This would guar­an­tee
an empty sanc­tu­ary. Just me,
God, and Donovan-who wouldn’t
be present, no choir to sing 

“The Hurdy Gurdy Man” and no hymnal

includ­ing “The Divine Daze

of Death­less Delight.” I’d pray

in an amply way, not addressing

God as “Dear”-God’s bored

with being “Dear,” prefers something

wow like Hey Cool Thing. My service,

brief in this quick atten­tion span age–

two min­utes and we’re thinking

about sex or cheese steaks. The building?

Not pew-crappy. Though no one

will be lis­ten­ing, we’ll meet,

not on a street, but in any one

of bil­lions of infi­nite places-minds,

some open, some closed,

col­or­ful and autumn-day crisp.

I’d speak of love, flow­ers, duty,

beauty, then stand down, give

a kiss of peace. And mean it.
Kiss myself back.

Ken­neth Pobo’s book, Glass Gar­den, came out in 2008 from Word Tech Press. He has a new chap­book, Tea on Burn­ing Glass, com­ing out this year from Tan­dava Poetry Press.