By Morgan Boyer
About a quarter mile from my house lies a church
with rusted handles. Its congregants are spider
webs and elders rotting planks of wood. The grass littered
with beds of cigarette butts and ant-filled bags of Cheetos
dropped by broke twenty-somethings who were high as kites
trembling to their houses at four in the morning on a Monday.
Their grey insides glistened in the near-noon sunlight.
In black, 1981-style letters on the ebbs of white panels encased
inside of a dusty sign read a haunting epitaph: Faith is not just
something you believe
but you act upon