Church Going Poem by Gert Strydom

I hear voices singing inside
and notice big signs asking for silence
in the foyer
for when respect is lacking,

but groups of people, mainly women
stand in the entrance whispering loudly
and when I walk in

people are in their suits, best dresses
with hair done to the newest style
and almost every eye follows me

with my leather jacket, motorcycle helmet
in my hand
and formal pants as if trying to see
why I am different.

I take a backbench, just in front of the one
marked for mothers with babies
and the wood is hard and uncomfortable
probably to keep churchgoers awake
right through a monotonous sermon.

With the congregation I kneel down to pray
and the elder makes a long drawn out preach
of it and I feel
some kids still staring at me
and through slightly opened eyes see them looking,
whispering and indicating to each other.

At the front, at the holy end a woman plays the piano
and another plays along with the organ
while the congregation stand in song
and I listen intently to the minister
preaching about the love of God,

see an old man with a bold head
falling asleep in front of me,
his wife hitting him with the elbow
in the ribs every now and then,
a small girl colouring pictures
with different crayons
and just after the last song walk out
before the people gather in cliques
and are the first to take to the road
with my motorbike.