Skinner's Box Of Superstition Poem by Scott J. Shepard

Its ten o' clock mass,

a priest has an exchanging of words,
first with God, than with man,
his head spinning with insight.

A mission of will,
a choice of trust that is freely offered.

Reads holy scripture, scrolls head to herd
for a sign of worship and blessing.

A flock of pigeons swarm the edge of a belfry tower
as though it were the roof of the world.

They patiently perform a lifetime of logic
only for something to chew on.

There, kneeling on pew,
pondering truth as if it were bread,
I deliver a dollar to the community basket.