Poetry

On the Job

Overcast and cool this morning–
sidewalks slick from rain last night–
wipers on my new car working,

working, working, working, working–
Don't know how to turn them off–
working, working, working, working.

So we giggle while we're driving,
check the manual at the church,
line up arrows, change positions.

Church begins, the organ playing,
and the rumble starts out low:
working, working, working, working.

As I step up to the pulpit,
text before me, I hear more.
Heaven loosens, speaks its own word

So I step down, draw them closer,
tell the story where they are —
working, working, working, working —

Father, son and, Lord knows, angel
gather on the mountainside.
Ram in thicket, sudden savior?

I say, "It's a horror story,"
and I see the people nod,
and the thunder answers, louder.

After: coffee, conversation,
greetings, meetings planned ahead.
Sunday morning now is over.

Rain is falling, wipers working–
how to turn them off again?
Working, working, working, working…

11 thoughts on “On the Job”

  1. again – i bow in the presence of greatness – what a great poem! I have only just begun to pen a few – after a Brian McLaren presentation – we were taught how there.

  2. like the working, working, working, working recurring phrase — it mimics the rhythm of the wipers and also suggests the constant working of our lives…

  3. wow. and thanks for the weather report from home! I don’t have to worry about the garden, I guess.

  4. Songbird, you are amazing! (This from a former high school English teacher who only wishes he were half the poet you are…) Blessings!

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