by Winnie Kay
Church goers ain't what they used to be, but all are welcome. [Rubaiyat]
Times, They Are A-Changin'
I don my hat and gloves and hose
to venture out and take repose
in Sunday praise. But wait—Oh my!
A score of souls in ghastly clothes.
Her jeans are torn. He has no tie.
A cell phone rings. He must reply?
“Whazzup,” sings boist’rous disrespect.
You’re in a church! my eyes decry.
We’re all God’s kids, I recollect
and settle down as I direct
a sandaled boy with exposed toes
to join my pew and disconnect.
[Interlocking Rubaiyat Quatrain -- Iambic Tetrameter]