who's in; who's out?

as the greeters
      stand at attention (like
      tv show doormen in their
      gold braided coats), politely
   opening the door for the insiders
   with a knowing nod,
         you knock over the
         neatly stacked bulletins
                and as they scramble
                on their hands and knees
             to clean up the mess
      you sneak in all those
         whom the world has cut
                       off;

where the songs 
        are so old the words
           float in the sky
           beside the dust motes
       from the hymnals
              and the organ
              plays at an
         undertaker's pace,
            you sit down at the piano
   and rock the house
      with riffs Dave and Duke
         would envy;

when those who
look like a
              Bradbury short story
      arrive, only to be
         told sotte voce
   as the usher gazes over
   the half empty space, that
            the church is filled
         to capacity,
      you stand up and
                     holler
   "I'll give up my seat!"

and First Xenophobic Church
will never be the same.

(c) 2012  Thom M. Shuman