In the midst of congregation

there is ample space to drift

and lift my eyes to heaven

when hymns I cannot sing,

prayers my lips won't mumble

and knees which will not supplicate

are more than I can bear.

I renovate The House of God

and fashion a bathroom

tiled with stained glass;

a cross nailed to the wall

makes a convenient shelf

for soap and flannel.

The Sermon on the Mount

rumbles through the pipes

and we are blessed

with a curtained shower

where she waits for wash and go.

The priest sprinkles Holy Water,

my daughter says nothing

came out of his hand;

I remember I still have my hat on

and my face burns with shame.