I’ve stepped out of the car
and into this familiar scene
hundreds of times.
Only the details change.

I no longer bike down the hill,
past the pecan trees,
and throw white rocks
into the stream.

I don’t race through pastures
along the thin paths
whittled into the earth
by the hooves of the herd.

I gave up trying to beat
nails into wooden rejects,
making thingamajigs
and doohickeys.

I used to criticize the stiff pews
and cringe at the red crushed velvet.
I diverted my eyes
from the forty tithing members.

Now all the bikes are broken
and the pecans withered away.
The stream has dried up
and the rocks are *****.

I no longer want to run
and the paths are faded.
The cattle have been sold
and the pastures overgrown.

I only use hammer and nail
to make practical things,
and even those
are not really worth making.

I sit and accept the message,
upright and alert.
I shake the hands of the congregation
and look them in the eye.

Only the details change.