It was a chubby little church on the side of some forgotten state route in Tennessee. Resting behind a chipped fence with no gate. Its only companion was a saddled plastic caterpillar teetering on a rusted coiled spring. The bricks were overrun with kudzu growing out of all kinds of places. The plain glass windows finally qualified as stained. Blessed only by the occasional rodent, this forgotten temple remained empty on Sunday. Inside, the pipe organ's ghost played a eulogy for its congregation. On the front steps, once home to a fruitful wedding rested the same old broken bottle of Southern Comfort.
It remembered that day. The giant car came racing down the road and pulled over suddenly. The building's hopes were rekindled despite it being a Tuesday. The steeple rose to attention with excitement. Finally, it had some visitors seeking sanctuary. The giant passenger door opened with a loud creak. A mustard haired lady leaned out of the car and began to vomit in the gravel. The church listened as she hacked her confession from the far side of the car. The driver never looked over as he fiddled with the radio. As he sped off he threw the now empty bottle. It was his donation.
sunday morning on the main deck
2 days ago