In this town where I grew up, traipsing bored

to mass on Sundays, The Kingdom of God

was founded also by men who believed

in teatime treats. Abstemious fathers

of a global brand for whom the darkness

was devils that winked and slobbered in drink.

 

The Good News a source from which to drink

the truth, it brought hope to the weak or bored;

and those worthies knew that sloth was darkness,

obscuring the plan envisioned by God

whereby the sons must face their fathers,

building a monument to their belief.

 

The Tale of the Talents, so they believed,

justified their faith in money, but drink

was vice, the ruination of fathers.

The honest grafter could never be bored

and to his family might seem a god,

keeping at bay the hard times and darkness.

 

The tied houses were spotless. No dark nests

of vermin, no leaks occur, when belief

is practical, for then the Word of God

translates to a staunch home with food and drink.

Progress with profits inspired their Board,

a decent world for mothers and fathers

 

to bring up kids with a field for fathers

to kick a ball. A warm glow in darkness,

and a little sweetness when you are bored –

these were the pleasures in which they believed,

sipping contentedly anodine drinks

of tea or coffee: potions blessed by God.

 

In a world where nations can pick strange gods

collectible tins could get goods farther

than these streets I know, to regions that drink

torrential rains or, when we’re in darkness,

blaze beneath a single sun. With belief

so bright and firm, I too might not be bored.

 

A moderate drinker, relinquishing gods,

I praise good fathers for worthy beliefs.

What they abhorred was merely the darkness.