Before The Service - Vic Gamble

Sundays were by fate, grey,
lacking even peculiar grace,
my old man chewing over communion
and crudely caught in his own private act
of bewitchment and the folly of fear,
under the inescapable eyes
of some inconsolable God.

My young shoes polished
by a firm pious mother,
peeling off the dirt
like an enemy;
my hair stretched on the racks of comb
slicked surface as smooth as any
covered grave.

Father smiled his nervous disappearing act
in low roofed pantries
to nip at Dutch courage
for the sake of God & sanity,
brushing long slashes of ash
from his best suit
and smacking vulgar lips
as if his mouth was full
of the sensation
of his own carcass.
His wink was for me,
his scowl for God
and revealed, like a poor trump card,
he handed my mother
the creased eyed pain
of a wilted bouquet.

in the church
it was all air
and strange decorum,
the tinge of whiskey
still jigging my father’s tongue
like a devil sick to death
of its own inbreeding.
when no-one looked
I ran a hand through my hair,
digging up that grave image
so carefully earlier laid,
and catching her eye of disapproval
I yearned for the day when,
like my father,
I could play at evil
and still be loved by her.

Sundays were by fate, grey,
lacking even a peculiar grace………

Vic Gamble