in the dog house again

i see 
Father Smith coming

down the center

aisle 

about to give mass,

the little altar

boys trailing

behind with the cross,

and staff

and other assorted

instruments

of faith.

i give him

a nod,

a little wave, but

he scrunches up his mouth

and rolls his

eyes.

he's mad at me.

i've  written too many

poems about

him

and the church.

i'm in hot Holy Water

with him,

i'm banned to the

the proverbial doghouse,

a perpetual

state of purgatory, or is it,

limbo?