Taxed to the Max

After rising on Sunday morning
at the hour of stupid o’clock
to ensure The Pastor gets
to the church on time…

After sifting through music for
two services – one traditional and
sedate, like my childhood church,
the second rowdy and electrified…

After chatting with seniors who
ply me with homemade treats
and holding babies who always
want to play with my glasses…

After worship, when everyone has left,
save the pastor and spouse, I’m
perched by the back door as he
fumbles for keys and outens lights…

After trading our holy attire for
holey jeans and brewing tea, we
collapse on the couch, spent as
post-coital lovers, limp as lox.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Sunday’s Poetic Bloomings, with thanks to Marie and Walt for an interesting prompt. Also at my poetic lifeline, Poets United.