Saturday Night Sunday Lunch

(The futility of misplaced faith).

You push me from the crumbling edge
of a tumultuous Saturday,
into the torpor of God’s Day,
to drown there
in other people’s dreams.
But tumbling through that thicket
of the faithful,
washed by the splash of cheap communion wine
my wafer-thin atheism
is passed from mouth to mouth
for Sunday lunch.
And later, replete, our friends depart
to gird their egos once again,
sated by the tasty flesh of my
defenseless crucifixion.

© Graham Sherwood 10/2011