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       A Verse Narrative by Michael E. Mautner


12


    Ellis always thought he'd find
    giving gospel-talks each week
    the pulpit's main attraction.
    He need make no correction
    to that opinion.  He loves
    the passionate gestures
    and verbal acrobatics,
    the flourishes and dramatics,
    the whole art of altering tone.
    This vagabond life, though,
    discourages him.
    Since becoming a clergyman
    he has changed parishes often,
    usually every third season.
    He fails to comprehend the reason
    and hopes soon to settle somewhere.
    Not here, amidst this terminal
    dilapidation, where decay's odor
    fills the hall with a hint
    of perdition's brimstone,
    where the people, who are poor,
    plant their bare feet on the dirt floor
    and kick dust into the air
    which, illumined by sunbeams
    that shatter the crumbling steeple,
    lends a false golden tint
    to the walls.  It's falling apart,
    this place.  He'll be glad to depart
    it, to move to new conditions.
    All in good time.  Presently,
    he comes to his favorite line,
    climax to the current rendition
    of an old yellowing sermon.
    For emphasis, he points at Kent,
    calling on all the young fellows,
    giving them causes to atone.
    The boy sees right through him.
    He pauses,
    feeling as if flesh has been rent
    from bone.



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