On a good day

On a good day

The voices of men are a church

Maybe on a bad day too

Confessions slide past lips

Absolved once airborne

Every ear a silent priest

On a good day

The souls of men are a church

A calm and empty hall

Gold bars playing on dust specks

And the pews are just hanging

God’s down at the pub

On a good day

The offerings of men are a church

A proud fragile tithe

Raw organs, innards on tin plates

Bare wooden floor boards

That have known so many knees

On a good day

The hearts of men are a church

An altar of rough wood

Where tears are splintered

The washing hung out to dry

Crow’s-feet squint, looking out for bad day rain

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