Sunday Matinee

My kids don’t bother to ask anymore—

What we’re doing on Sundays.

It’s been routine since they were born—

We go to the matinee.

~~~

The girls spend more time on their hair

and dress for good impressions.

The boys shine up their loafers.

Then each report for inspection.

~~~

We recline in rows of pine

as the previews and trailers begin—

The same seats every time,

as we wait for the lights to dim.

~~~

The Prelude builds the theme—

the show, at last, begun.

A gentle hush. A polished gleam.

A little kingdom come.

~~~

We sing the songs we came to sing,

we stand, we sit, we smile;

some are moved by anything

well-rehearsed and if worthwhile.

~~~

It’s clear the cast has kept the script,

conviction cut to size—

enough to stir the heart a bit,

but not wreck our appetites.

~~~

The curtains close. The credits roll.

An old man checks his watch.

Annoyed by all the time it stole,

he hurries off to lunch.

~~~

In this, our weekly pantomime,

we trade what’s real for ease—

for ritual dressed up in rhyme

and bland complicities.