Sold my sunday shoes; by Mitchell Ross

I could almost see the fundamentalist up-tights 
sipping english breakfast in their sunday best 
in the back of my Father’s mind every time 
he warned me not to take the Lord’s name in vain. 
His parents really stuck that fear of God into his head. 
The only relatable analogy I can rustle up is of the old, 
trodden gum that you see clotting city pavements.

photo credit: Helga Weber via photopin cc