Celebrating the Sabbath

Sunday afternoon the rain stops.
Inanimate bodies of the faithful
that had been strewn about the house
like piles of dirty laundry on sofas, chairs
and on beds upstairs have arisen.
Lost souls in search of new life,
half-awake and hung over, they
shuffle and stumble around the house.
It is the resurrection of the party.

A hodgepodge of hogs are parked
in the driveway and on the lawn,
under tarps and blankets or just plain wet.
Broog’s chromed Harley pan head, a holy
icon, with ape hanger handlebars and a fat
bob gas tank, is sheltered on the porch,
high and dry above the mud and muck.

Angels, pagans and wanna-bees join
other Outrageous Mother F--kers
and huddle around the boob tube
in the living room, watching Sunday Services.
American Football, a new communion
complete with stale beer, left over
pretzels and soggy potato chips.
The house echoes with hoots and howls,
cheers and jeers, as the Redskins
scalp the Cowboys.

Outside in the backyard, the beer kegs
are empty, dead soldiers lying in the mud.
Bud in the can from the local 7-11 now
provides salvation.

Friend of the Devil blasts from a boom
box, while three girls sit on the picnic table,
swaying to the music and laughing
at the brave souls dressed in only skivvies,
slipping, sliding and tumbling
in the vegetable garden, as guys and gals tussle
in the naked mud wrestling tournament.

This is Hog Heaven.

Next door at the Church of the Nazarene,
they are singing and giving praise to the Lord.
On our side of the fence, we know
Jesus never rode a Harley.