compelled, I
strictly attend
and genuflect
in the First
Church of No Sound.
And each morning,
while I'm deep in the well
of reflection,
a large bowl for
collections invariably
comes around.
And I watch, as if
from a lonely vista, high
above the ground,
as, one tidy
mound of ever-
smiling silver at a time,
my own private
stash of greedy thought
is tossed-off,
too reluctant—yet
too piously—into
that trough.
But somehow, despite that
drive to count and
hoard up all that's mine,
each time I manage
the circumspect trick
of giving a little bit more
than I thought
I could spare just
one morning before.
