While this might be a poetic euphemism,

while I have been known to do that sort of thing,

while I am known, to the extent I am known,

for making up and overusing silly phrases

that could mean almost anything,

today, right now, in predawn dark,

as I digest my breakfast, sip my coffee,

and take my series of medications,

the ones that make me feel normal and well,

even though my doctor says I am very much not well,

and my wife says I have never been close to normal,

but in the quiet darkness of my living room,

maybe, in spite of what Disney says,

the most magical place on earth,

where I love and am loved

where I have but a limited time to live

but an unlimited time to enjoy whatever is left,

here, I contemplate

going to church on Sunday morning,

and yes it is the local universalists,

so not your regular church, but there are people,

a wonderfully black queer minister,

and after a service that borders on being

‘too churchy’ for me, there is the gathering,

in the covered breezeway, where they have coffee

and cake and conversation and people have tables

promoting one good thing or another.

This is my church.

Brother Hill does their best,

but even the most warm and wonderful person

can hardly compete with the joy of being

together in an unforced place and time.

Unlike the image I carry in my mind, when one says

“Going to Church on Sunday Morning”

ladies in bright purple dresses and giant matching hats

or the more subdued ones in black and a small black hat

with a half veil of white lace,

to match the white piping on their jacket,

or at least the fine gentleman

in his coat and fancy three faced watch,

I will go in my slightly dirty khaki fedora,

my button down long sleeved blue shirt, khaki pants

and topsiders worn to a generous level of comfort.

This was supposed to be a poem,

but as often happens these days,

it turned into a bit of a short story

that all the formatting and enjambments

will not a poem it make.