Now that we have no need of them,
we gravitate to pulpits,
to red-faced swaggering men,
that rain their spittled blessings
while hectoring their platitudes.
Still they stand there,
raving, ranting in their heavens,
(how wonderful our lives will be!)
they wave their promises as prayers
and we, in meekness, nod.
Were we to pull their frocks off,
their frail facades of honesty,
would skin be on their bones?
or would we see them as they are,
- kneeling with our priests.