A poem that made it to the "final cuts" at one litmag

Blessed Coffee
by Peter Dudley

In the beginning, there was emptiness.
Not one single drop.
While the priest turned
Water into wine and labored to
Convert the masses in his echoing
Stone and concrete hall,
I percolated, converting water into
Coffee.

Such a church should have
A bigger kitchen and
A sink that works.

Black mystery of the divine
Heat of his love
Steam ascending toward Heaven
Glass window into God

The ladies will arrive soon, ignoring
Doughnuts and fussing over brooches.
They will sip from their
Styrofoam fonts,
God’s love burning on their lips and
In their throats.

If Father Brian asks,
I don’t know what happened
To the rest of his
Holy water.

But I do know the number of a good plumber.