Sunday’s Gravity

The folding chairs scrape on the basement floor

while we talk about taxes and locking the door.

I picked up a hymnal to settle my hands

but it feels like a mountain from far away lands.

The gold on the cover is a dull, gray smudge

and the spine has a stiffness that refuses to budge.

It’s heavier now than when I was a boy

before I traded the praise for a different employ.

My wrist starts to ache from the density of it

the red-edged pages and the people who love it.

I don’t know the words or the tunes anymore

I just feel the weight as I stare at the floor.