Black Sunday Poem by Kyle Shield Laster

He peeks inside the church to see that
He needs a cigarette before he can do it.
All his life he's waited.
He's waitin'.
He kicks a loose stone that's eroded from
The steps.
Oh, the steps he took to get here.
He's inhalin' deeply and prayin' for a sickness.
Cancer maybe.
An excuse to leave.
This boy's dressed too sharp to leave: a pin-striped suit
That belongs to his daddy.
He's sweatin' underneath.
It trickles down to his toes
Along with his fear
And in to a pair of worn dress shoes:
Freshly polished.
He's startled by a sudden dose of 'holy ghost' that's
Filled the church: the saint's go wild in an appropiate manner.
Can't have no slips and hips showin' in church.
He's done with his deed and has to finish another,
But his mama comes out lookin' sanctified in her new dress:
It's all white.
She frowns at him standin' in all his unholiness.
Saints don't smoke or sweat or fear she believes.
Not in public anyway.
It's time to face the choir.
She turns him toward the door.
It's time to be free.
She nudges him.
It's time to be rid of his demons.
He's walkin'.
It's time to limit his love.
He's cryin'.