Religion The Southern Baptist Church Poem by James McLain

they came in stiff suits,
smiling like they knew the secret,
hands outstretched for redemption
and the tithe plate,
the holy business of salvation
run like a poker game
with the house always winning.

outside, the sun scalded the weeds,
but inside, it was cold,
cold as the eyes of the preacher
who measured sin
by the skirt length
and the whiskey bottle.

a hymn rose like smoke,
choking the room,
and I sat in the back,
waiting for it all to burn.