Member Poem

He tries the door to the stairwell
as if the polished knob will play
with the ease of a manual;
soft light pools in through the archway.
As his skilled right hand falls away
a look of displeasure shows on his face.
We leave the soul who’s come to pray,
the burnished pipes in their gaudy case.

His mood, somber and cathedral,
has every intention to stay,
like the final guest at a funeral
who refuses to go on his way
and wearies his host on a solemn day.
Beyond the air of that sacred place,
espresso machines brew fresh café,
the burnished pipes in their gaudy case.

Then, as weight off a depressed pedal,
or wind pumped out through an airway,
gloom shifts. Part of the place, like a gargoyle,
his heart still swells at the pay;
the problem, he says, is the liturgy,
the rites that stop the flow of grace
as his faithful hands sustain, decay
the burnished pipes in their gaudy case.

Content to be one of the lay,
he browses a shop’s antiques, traces
the hookahs neatly arrayed,
their burnished pipes in a gaudy case.