On Sundays male believers
sit in pews with their families,
booted, suited and tied to the nines.
Their wives stop the children fidgeting
by giving them sweets every so often.
The wives are competitively dressed up,
in formal pastel colours, like witnesses
at the wedding of a distant relative
rather than alive as part of the Bride Of Heaven
-who according to professed belief,
lives by looking for the groom
in the lives of everyone around them.
If ever they reach their destination
their Sunday itself will be consumed
in the never ending present,
and their once-best clothing
will seem like a faded joke
where they forget how their lives
once fed into the punch-line.
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