The Spine

The pews are too narrow, the air is too thick,

the smell of the floor wax is making me sick.

The hymnal is heavy, a brick in my palm,

as we mumble our way through a funeral psalm.

My wrist starts to ache from the weight of the wood,

I’d put the book down if I thought that I could.

A frayed ribbon hangs from the middle-most page,

yellow and gold like a bird in a cage.

We’re singing of glory and streets made of gold,

while the wool of my suit is beginning to fold.