I went to church and I sat in the pews

and watched all the kids drawing

and the parents scoffing at the teenagers’ eye-rolls and whatevers.

I thought it was ironic that the bishop’s talking

and the counselors are nodding

but the families are trapped in themselves.

And it’s funny how the women are crying

and how the priests keep lying

as they kneel on the floor on their knees

and the bishop keeps talking

towards the counselors—still nodding

but then someone always gets up and leaves.

And finally I’m walking

away from the gawking

”Did he cross himself once or twice?”

Please.

’Cause the fact that my fist moves

in the form of a ‘t’ means more than 

the fact that I’m gone

and they handed me the sacrament cups

and I know that they’re curious to see

if I’ll drink it and find what I need

But if salvation lies trapped at the bottom of paper

and I’m holding it in my hands from a kid

who’s tie’s too tight or too loose

and my brothers and sisters are confused

when I say, “no thanks, indeed,”

then maybe this is a self-titled rejection

from the life that’s been offered to me.

But even more strongly than the thoughts of Our Father

and Our Lady or St. anything,

are the thoughts that at home there’s a pad and a poem

waiting to be written by me.

And it’s increasingly frustrating

as my parents keep waiting

to see if I’ll see answer the call

to serve on a mission

but too late—forbidden

because at this point

two years for a cause not known by

the young man in question

really strikes me as nothing at all.

But I guess I could guess this

is just another message

from someone more noble than self

who’s willing to lie for this

willing to die for it

and willing to save my soul

and if I were lesser

or at the very least better—

maybe I’d accept such control.

But at this point in time I’m thinking

maybe I’m fine, meaning,

maybe I’m just a real kid.

Maybe I’m nothing more or less than me

Maybe I’m the definition of free

Because everything I need

I can be.

And so I’m still walking

away from the talking

I know people keep to themselves.

After all it’s one ‘atheist’

A kid who hates all this

as they point to their rings and their books

And instead I start crossing

to continue the talking

because I love the way confusion looks 

on the faces of people who swore they saw me

in seminary or passed me in the hallway

between a block or two meeting at church

and too many are saying

it’s a false god he’s obeying

why,

because I accidentally met him first?

No, I’m not a heathen, no I’m not a Christian

Bear me your testimony

I’ll still laugh at religion

But for everyone who wonders out loud in the dark

Is there something more there? than me, and myself?

Is there something worth knowing

Or at least something worth owning

beyond all our material wealth?

Is there any reason there are rainbows in rain

Or why people die young or while riding a train

Is there anything more than the stars in the sky

and is there any harm in not knowing

but still asking why?

Maybe I’m wrong and I’m thinking too hard

Maybe there’s a god and I’ve missed it so far.

But even when I meet Him and He looks at me fair—

I’ll be able to tell Him, there’s nothing else there