church janitor

by David Wright
After the baptism I cleaned out the tank,
walls still slick with redemption.

The drain guzzled its holy deluge;
bristles of a boom vibrated

the fiberglass floor. I raided the closets
for solvents, but nothing, even scrubbing

on my knees, could erase dark prints
from the pastor's black shoes, real marks,

not mythical but material, permanent
from wherever he stepped before church

showing exactly where he stood as, one by one,
he dipped bodies backwards into heaven.