The Antenna

Ascending the church tower
begins with a spiral staircase
that winds up to a door.
Beyond lies a room packed
with carved wooden thrones,
brass monstrances, ten foot candles.
Behind a defunct baptismal font,
a square hole in the wall
breathes heat in Summer.
I've squirmed through and explored
the church attic, the arched floor
and vaulted ceiling,
above worshippers and a roaring organ.
A second doorway leads to an iron staircase
coiling a hundred feet to the spire.
Each foothold jars the rusting metal,
the air stifling, stagnant up high.
At the top is a platform,
a creaking planked floor,
the spire coned above.
Near floor's center, a golden
criss-cross of rods hums
clockwise on a motor.
Why would someone mount an antenna here?
Does Father Abbot watch television
in the sacristy before Mass?
Free of dust, gleaming gold 
beneath two bat skeletons clinging to eaves, 
this must be His doing.
So many churches
and they're all God's House.
Visiting each in the flesh is impossible,
so He's gone to listening
through lectern microphones,
speaking through the crackle
of public address
from Heaven's Throne.

Scott Speck
08/09/99