Joseph Piedmonte

Church Stand

Mouth is a mess,
my mother is wiping away
with tissue wet with her own spit.
My crusty cowlick and cheeks
are covered in concrete pancake syrup.
It's my in sermon saliva bath,
all this while
permed hairs tween' pews
with moist makeup faces
try to outdo each other.
Their falsetto croons
and cheap perfume
mixes in air with
crying room smells of
filled diapers.
It’s turning God on.
He peels back the roof of the church
and begins wafting
the stench towards his giant nostrils,
Inhaling he’s
pulling people up
from their seats and into
his holy noise hair.
I’m watching them
struggle and squi rm until
they’re sneezed and scattered
out, left in wads of mucus
on wall.
Still we finish our song
and I couldn't be more pleased
with it all
because I finally get to sit
down again.