The Pulpit

It is a last bastion, 
The pulpit. Prominent 
Among muscular box shapes; 
Fenced off and jutting skyward 
Like a miniature city; 
Elevated by just enough steps 
To let it glow 
In its own halo. 

It is solid; 
Sunday-washed 
And clean as boiled water; 
Tailored as a missionary. 
An invitation is required 
To lean there. 
One must be 
As professional as a seminar, 
As navy blue as midnight. 

But don’t think 
Anything feminine is missing. 
Notice the milkvase 
Fussed up 
With seasonal flowers, 
The flowers stiffened with spritz. 
You hardly notice 
When the petals detach 
And lie, 
Reverently wilted, 
Under the paling roses.