Sunday Morning Worship at the Waffle House

They spill their holy language

across place mats sporting today’s

minimum tithe.

Sitting stiffly in collared shirts and tailored

suit jackets

next to women wearing floral print dresses

attempting to restrain small, wryly children

who are caught with syrupy fingers.

Their hymns are the clinking of forks and knives over

the jukebox playing Katy Perry.

We sit in our Sunday Best—

black t-shirts and Levi skinny jeans;

our shoes are splattered with white paint

from an innocent late-night misadventure.

You chuckle at some trinket of conversation,

a brief murmur coming from

the congregation.

I watch you stack the many creams,

your tower of Babel,

growing ever more beautiful in its instability.

You open one and pour the sweet liquid.

it mixes with bitter coffee—the Blood of Christ—

we take communion together

breaking eggs and waffles

as you preach a sermon on

skepticism,

belief hanging over me

like an anvil.