A rather large, ragged man stands spread-legged
in the doorway of a tiny country church.
With noon-tide at his back,
he draws his breath from a half-empty bottle of bourbon.
His face is hard and cracked.
His eyes sunken and jaundiced.
The clothes which hang about him are dated
and wrinkled thru with the smell of cigarettes and urine.
Before long, he magnets the attention
of a curious congregation.
His presence quickly obscures that of the preacher's.
As he scans the rowed wooden pews
for the one he calls "his,"
a frail dark-haired woman
with a small child in her arms stands.
She is raw-boned and wears no color.
Forcing a public smile,
she gathers her three children and their things.
With this, a mother and her three best friends join
the staggering spectacle near the back of the church.
As the family draws close,
the man jerks up the youngest child.
He plants a rough hand in the small of the woman's back -- hurrying her along.
And the church doors swing shut.
Back at home -- children are pointed to bed
and questioning begins.
The inquisition soon turns physical.
With unbalanced steps, he snakes the belt from his waist, and begins to whip her
-- punishment for her absence.
Somewhere between the tearing lashes
spills a drunken apology.
Finally, the beating stops
and there remains only heavy breathing and whimpering.
He slumps, breathless, over the kitchen table.
She huddles, crying, in the corner.
In just a few minutes, sirens
-- accompanied by an array of lights
-- crescendo up the driveway.
He looks at the woman and hurriedly makes the worn-out Sunday promise of "never again . . ."
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