Sunday Morning

My dues seem too much.

The tithe is steep for the penurious.

The redemption factory must meet expenses.

Candles, copiers, staff, incense, vestments- the crumbling structure.

The list lengthens in my mind,

His trips abroad.

From the nave, I gaze at the priest, facile,

my thoughts no more than glimmers on a sunlit pond,

blend sin and the payments for salvation – placed haltingly in the wicker basket.