Irony

The benches cackle at his jeans.

Hootin’ and hollerin’ at the color.

Everyone watches him as he leads

the congregation

The benches moan at his voice.

He can’t keep a steady pitch,

but everyone looks at him

in awe.

The benches cry out to be saved.

He continues talking, eyes focused

on the black and grey tile

foreshadowing his future.

I wish I could take the pain away.

The benches don’t deserve this

miserable, awful, humiliating

attempt of a rosary.

I wish I could take the pain away.

He watches his granddaughter

run to the alter

knocking over baby Jesus.

I wish

I wish

I wish I was dead.

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