Poem 18: Sunday

The angel's blue wings cross tips
in front of his white robe,
like the flag of Scotland.
I went downstairs to find
my daughter playing peacefully
with plastic plates and a plastic
hamburger. There was no magic trick,
the pastor said, talking about
the loaves and the fishes.
It was the culture of abundance.
We live, too often, in that other
culture. What blue angel?
All these stained glass white men
in our sanctuary. All these
city children, singing.