Sunday service

Her voice floats like a balloon,

rising to the ceiling of the church in which she sings on Sundays

It's still a quarter to noon

the midday sun sinks the streets in a heat-haze

ripples rise off the asphalt like steam

rising from the surface of a stew

that you slurp when you're sick between fever dreams

but no one in the building knew

their eyes were wandering all over

yet their ears picked up only the song

even wily children keep an air of composure

keeping still, although the hymn is long

the church is a building that sings the songs back

with it's high steepled ceiling of planks of wood

it echoes back perfect, though most of the wood is cracked

from settling, or the vast time this church has stood

the rows of pews force backs to attention

the straight up seats force a dignified posture

but we don't notice as we hold a breath of tension

not worrying of our backs nor the curvature

as the room fills to the brim with her voice

and as we sit we do think to ask

when she sings, do we have a choice?

her cry has never just slipped past