Not So Hard Pressed To Follow Suit

It is a steam-pressed sort of
Sunday morning,
the sun gliding low upon the
damp horizon
like a clothes-iron burning
the mists up from a
washed-out blue suit sky,
and the church bells ring
within the bright white steam
that deepens in the valley
while the fussy, prim flocks
crowd the purblind roads
and sit, stiff-collared, in the stuffy pews,
uncomfortable in their starched
creed,
hoping to keep their proper suits from
burning
in the
Devil’s laundromat;
whereas I lay out
relaxed,
naked to the skin in the nave
beneath your steepled legs,
lounging among wrinkled sheets,
sleeping in with you
while easy breezes billow
playfully against the
ghosts
on the laundry line,
knowing myself to be
folded neatly
in this cozy spread of
Heaven.

 

(Dedicated to my fiancee, Falon, with whom I wish to spend every such Sunday.)

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