All the little cars pull into their little church
As concrete steam slyly reminds us of the temperature.
The night sticks to the bottom of our feet
While the sins of Tuesday
Stick to the palms of their hands.

And all the pews are filled
With the drooping eyes of tired members
As they beg their minds to
Absorb each word of “wisdom”
Offered from the mouths of the “holy.”

Censure seeps from the sideways glances
As the mothers move through the lobby.
***** water spills from their mouths
While the laundry is aired through lofty sighs.
As if they, themselves had no other chores.

Little girls hide from those mothers
Pretending straws are cigarettes
While yelling at invisible boyfriends
As if somehow that is the mark of maturity.
But how else should they play “grown-ups”
If not by mirroring?

Pulling away from their shrine of insolence,
Those mothers point at me across the street.
“See what happens when you don’t stay in church?”
They’ll say to their daughters
Because I no longer pretend straws are cigarettes,
And only siren songs are heard from these lips.