Three Shelves

Three Shelves

(“’And now entreat the favor of God, that he may be gracious to us. With such a gift from your hand, will he show favor to any of you?’ says the Lord of hosts.” Malachi 1:9)

Isn’t it a heavy commentary, filling at least three shelves on a pastor’s bookcase,
saved up for, referenced over and over the first ten years, then unopened after
finding the groove and exploiting the popular. We refer to the Hebrew,
missing the irony in our entreaties. We explain the Greek, and for another dime,
you can buy,
on your way by the hospitality booth
a stapled tome squeezing the last life out of our
twisted recitation of reverence.

Isn’t it a well-dressed diorama, perfectly stuffed with bleached newsprint,
bones connected to calculated concrete to supply the effect which we
just have not found yet,
still underground yet,
and we will add them as soon as we find them,
and we will show you how we still know you would
see it our way.

Isn't it a bulldozer honor, the emcee rises with appreciation on his plate,
appointed to speak, well. Appointed to speak well of the one who led
them so far this far. So far, he’s only talked about himself. “And so, Moses,
here is the card we all signed.” The bulldozer turns, grunts and sits quickly;
the leader is frozen, and it is well past noon until anyone takes another breath.

Isn't it a pale righteousness, the hurt and washless occupation we cover with our
second-hand masks. Dad gave it to Mom, Dad died. Mom gave it to me, Mom died.
I believe, I’ll scratch my chin, I’ve given it to my kids: all three…first with pride.
But now I feel the blood leaving my face; the disgraceful way I never controlled
my passion, my smug, my rhetoric, my hugs meant to welcome, then turn you
to invest in your own

Second-hand masks to hand down with a shrug. “After all, a man of God
told me all about them.”