Sunday's Sermon, First Draft

You’re afraid of beetles.
"Not the band," you say,
"the bug." Different species,
spelling, minus or plus an A.

One singular vowel twists identity
into a surprise! gotcha.
The equivalent in humans?
A soft spot for heroine,

the book of Job, unfortunate
tendencies toward frugality,
that balding man you'll meet
at the gym? Yes, the very same

gentlemen who'll slip off his ring
and expect you to ignore
the jewel's nagging jab
in your pocket (he had none)

as he goes down on you
in the empty Pilates studio--
the one surrounded in mirrors--
where, while his tongue is going

the wrong direction,
(you're too polite to tell him)
you look back at you, hoping
to see a little more than dime

bags of groceries, marijuana,
dropped calls and causes
under your eyelids. Your youth.
Your forties. Both ever faithful,

unlike you and Mr. Nose-in-Your-Snatch
who, having gotten his rocks off
puts his rock back on
and leaves you on the blue mat
with your secret

around tired knees. Tell me.
Do you feel baptized?
Do you feel saved?
Have you found your 'A'?