Sunday School

It’s Sunday
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Where a
Child-Like You
was once
Instructed
to Turn Off
The Radio,

Lest the Beatles,
or the Stones,
or, God Forbid,
the Doors,

Should
Lead You into
Dancehalls or
Theaters or
Worse.

It’s Sunday,
and You’re
Driving,
but not to
Church,

Your Ears
plugged in to
Slow Dances by
Winnetka Bowling League.

Feeling
a bit Guilty.

Perhaps, instead,
You Should Be
Praying or Meditating,
Contemplating
The Divine,

Not the Likes of
Walk the Moon doing
Anna Sun.

Then Your Angel,
Your Guide,
The One You call
Elizabeth,

Appears in the
Dancehall of
Your Mind,
Grinning and Swaying,
and Flinging Love,

Reminding You,

Thus Sayeth
The Lord:

Let There Be
Dance.