golden syrup.

i watched as you did not 
disguise your boredom 
as you stood uncomfortably 
in the crowded kitchen. 
It was warm with all the bodies 
squished together, 
the smell of hearty soup rising from the pot, 
along with freshly made bread 
formed by Peter's able hands. 
There were smiles everywhere,
the hum of many voices,
eagerly sharing stories that the week held.
I saw men approach you, 
offering a kind hand shake, 
offering their names up in exchange for yours.
I heard you, watched you, 
offer your name like it was the best gift 
they'd ever received
and i wanted to barf. 
Later, as the meeting was called to order, 
waves of bodies and the occasional wet boot, 
crammed before the fireplace,
papers passed, discussing the agenda. 
you were introduced more formally, 
by one of your brilliant past students, 
your name and title, 
spoken with reverence and respect
you took it like it was 
expected anyways, 
and thought it necessary 
to add your own 
two cents
to the lengthy list of your 
accomplishments, 
your abilities, 
your knowledge. 
the words fell out of your mouth
like over ripe syrup, 
i could almost see you lick your lips 
with your thick, 
amberous drops
looking around thinking 
everyone should 
taste the sweetness. 
i tasted sour patch 
without the sweet ending. 
The next two days you could not 
be escaped, 
you were to speak all day about 
a New Testament book. 
My husband was required to 
sit beneath your teachings, 
and i am sure there was much 
to be learned, 
but he also came back with the same 
sour taste in his 
mouth. 
We knew we needed to extend grace, 
we aren't better in any way, 
but when you look pride in the face, 
in its loud, 
arrogant primal form,
it isn't pleasant.
The last day we sat in our 
orange shiny chairs, 
in our humble meeting place 
built for the deaf and hard of hearing, 
and you sauntered up to the front, 
tie stiff and pressed, 
eyes glazing over the top of our heads
and never matching our eyes. 
You repeated your list of things you were 
good at, 
and then proceeded to dive into your sermon. 
Your voice boomed across the 4 walls,
i thought to myself, 
maybe he has poor eye sight 
because it seems like 
he has mistaken this small tiny room 
for a stadium. 
I couldn't help but be tense, 
my lips trying not to purse in disdain,
my husband gently 
squeezing my hand sensing the 
major discomfort i feel.
I try and focus on your sermon, 
and really listen
to what it is you are trying to convey,
but i just want it to be over with. 
Your sermon finally comes to a close 
[to my relief]
and it comes time to
dis assemble the church 
so that we can leave it 
the way we found it.
I watch everyone pitch in, 
even some of the other pastors,
reaching for chairs, 
adding to the stacks 
parked against the old walls. 
And there's you, 
standing impatiently by the door,
seemingly unaware that we 
could use some help. 
I hold my tongue, 
it is about to lose all control
as you stand there and pick at 
your fingernails.
the jobs were finally finished, 
all was back in order,
and in the last minute of quiet, 
i know i could have reached out to you, 
as you had no where to go 
until your ride
was ready, 
but i just couldn't do it. 
I walked past you, 
close enough to reach out and touch your 
starched jacket, 
look into your beady eyes, 
but i was afraid of my tongue, 
words frantically batting 
around my brain, 
pounding at the edges of my mouth, 
wanting to bust out. 
i maneuvered the red caravan of kids
and went on my way,
the scent of 
lingering syrup wafting 
behind me.. 



**disclaimer: don't worry. this isn't about anyone i know personally or do regular life with..so don't try and read into it too much.