The Virgin by Jon Harold

The Virgin

by Jon Harold

I bow before your molded form

and beneath my knees

I can feel the cold hard floor.

Everyone is bowed and quiet.

Behind your cement lids,

do you know

my mind is in the busy market place?

We sit as the wine is passed,

I hope it's good.

The organ plays

and your stony gaze follows

as I hurry home to lunch.