I am a tourist in the house of God;
My ephod is a lobster bib with white
And scarlet threads that shimmer, growing bright
With butter, while I crack the claws with rods
Of onyx, cram the clams of old Cape Cod
Upon the four-horned altar, and delight
In His almighty presence, where a spite
Fence hides and t-shirt shrouds all pious fraud.
A God in fifteen minutes flat, or less,
A drive across a bridge, a weekend trip
Away, is not “authentic” holiness,
For that’s a secret locals keep, their lips
Are sealed or closed in prayer, in winter they
Must go I know not where (for I don’t stay).
—
Greg Scalise ’18 is a Philosophy and Classics joint concentrator in Pforzheimer House.