Pretentious Tripe - A Poem

 

PRETENTIOUS TRIPE

The silence of a dead rooster on Easter morning,

a weasel picking at his bones, haunts her as

she enters the steepled church. Dressed like

an MGM musical parade, the pretenders follow,

each with his own lie to confess - but keeping

it a secret, cradling it like a baby in the arms

of deceit; their bland smiles robotic, unchanging,

hiding the jealous thoughts, the roving eyes, the

errant hand brushing "accidentally" against the

stiff, starched bosom of Mrs. Whoever. A

wild fantasy taking form as the organ wails,

reaching its peak as the preacher coughs, and

begins his oh-so-perfect nonsense. 

 

Does anyone listen? Their heads nod at every expected turn of

the Blessed Pages, some smile the smile again,

discreetly check the time. "Game starts soon", one

sighs. A baby fidgets, cries for freedom, a child

asks, "Mommy, when can we go?" 

 

A woman's new romance awaits her in the computer chat room,

while her husband's much more flesh and blood

intriguer sits parked at the local soda shop,

licking her impatient red lips. Is anyone

interested in the Word? Yes, the preacher,

alternately whispering, then bellowing to shake

the rafters, is completely consumed in his own

brilliance, as fine and emblazoned to him as

the light raining color from the stained glass

Jesus in the arch above. Reminds her of the

rooster, now silent, the weasel upon him, feeding.

But who is the weasel, and who the rooster?