Palm Sunday

Purple cloth
hidden effigy,
useless altar mics
fat-hand baby

-- in a pink jumpsuit
with concealed feet
is padding its way
down the aisle of mass.

Her mother starts chasing
continuing to pray
as the little tyke
reaches a turtle's pace.

Just a faint gurgle
and the medicine escapes.
I want be someone special
between the entrance
and the grave.

Find the right spot on my back.
Niche market, favourite bar
hot bath, fading star.
- The perfect meditation game.

When we return to the street
will the atrium of chance
fall under our feet?

This divine home
with its branches and blessings
is playing host
to my imperfect soul.

The tender pummph
of baby palms gets louder
as youthful wanderlust
offers a backbeat
for the sublime
sound of the priest
crunching the eucharist
before us.

A pre-school palm psalm, if you will.