"Whiskey and Jesus Never Mix"

Upstairs, the pastor rattles on
as I stumble through the restroom door,
groping in the dark
for that goddamn light switch.

A pitiful bulb flickers and
the stale smell of mildew,
musk and pine choke the air,
while a choir's song rat-tat-tats in the rusty pipes above
(A song of Noah and his flood)

My stubborn knees bend
to the worn grouted floor;
before the yellowed offering bowl.

Whiskey and Jesus never mix.

My eyes close;
my body rebels wretching
my sharp and chunky sins into the water.

Slumping against my cold porcelain savior,
I am born anew.

A baptism of bile and bowl water.