The Man Without Sin

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There’s this house where 
four retarded men live who 
go to church on Sundays. 

In the other ward, they come 
at nine; sometimes I see the four 
shaking hands like the ushers. 

This year, the first Sunday,
meeting times change and it 
is our turn to worship at nine. 

One of the four—that man 
alone there on the front bench— 
comes to our meeting. 

He turns the hymnal end for end,
flips pages singing uuuh oooh, 
and solos past the rests. 

The deacon watches the man’s 
hand fumble the white pieces 
of bread in untidy reverence. 

At testimony time a deacon 
walks to the front 
with a mike and coil of cord. 

The man stands, grabs the mike,
and the deacon flinches 
and looks to the bishop. 

The bishop straightens 
in his seat, bends forward, 
as lines in his forehead deepen.