Skipping Sunday School

I learned more about God
in the front seat of my family's
'34 Plymouth four door sedan
than I ever did in Sunday School,

which I skipped religiously
while the folks absorbed their
sermon, sang their hymns, recited
the Lord's Prayer and Benediction,
and dropped their little white
envelope in the deep dish
making its way from pew to pew
in the stone and stained glass splendor
of Westminster Presbyterian Church.
Bach, Beethoven and Brahms
were my teachers, Mozart
and Vivaldi, as The Firestone Hour
wrapped me in the flowing robes
of fiery gods, oblivious to sunlight
streaming through gold leaves
on the horse chestnut trees lining
16th Avenue, the purrs and putts
of passing cars, immersed
in the mathematics of the soul,
wondering how a war could rage
while the radio played a Chopin polonaise.