On Sundays

There is no room for me next to you
you push me over slowly

You start over.

You slowly ooze over onto me throughout
the hour and I
turn and adjust and show you my back
and feel you pushing me

Your chair is not enough for you
you take mine too

Your air is not enough for you
you breathe mine too

Your song is not enough for you
you sing mine too
and leave me voiceless mouthing words
gasping for breath

and at the end you feel Renewed
Rejuvenated
Fulfilled
Affirmed

and I am coiled in a knot under
my chair (yours now)

on the floor
between the feet of the faithful.