Between the tithe and taxi fare,
The hungry bite of lacking
Sinks its teeth to chew and tear,
The prey it’s always tracking.
Mother in a rayon, discount dress,
Directs the cab across the street,
Holding hope her son will impress
His affluent peers; chaff to their wheat.
She knows too well the thresher’s stroke,
Being shucked from the golden stalk,
Divided from God’s chosen folk,
Like cuttings that fall beside the walk.
Mother is pointed to the corner pew,
Ensconced among the unwanted few,
A handicapped boy, an elderly aunt,
Somebody's father who rocks and rants,
Just the crowd Christ would embrace,
Unwanted, unloved, outcast, and base.
Service has ended, and the flock has fled,
But for two members in prayer of shade,
Mother ruminates on the scriptures read,
While the diligent notes those around her had made,
Are placed in Bibles,that go back on the shelf,
Quickly forgotten in the gospel of self.
© 2003 Peter Andrew Nelson
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