Poem 51

This poem is still pretty fresh, raw even. I've tweaked it a bit and am actually satisfied enough to publish it. The idea came while driving past churches on Sunday, and I had another little flash about it that night.
I don't think I would have written this poem unless I had been thinking about Heidegger and technology on Friday.

Easter Service in the Parking Lot

Below the steel cross
with the white banner
visible from I-90, cars
in the parking lot, and along
the street leading to Crossroads
Bible Church gather
for communion of weather
in white-bordered pews.
Multitudes of them
line up at the edge. They
sit among regulars
displaced from their spots
by early arrivers.
As if they had guilt
built up after Sundays in
garages and apartment lots,
cars have come by
force of consciences
dressed in suits or
floral dresses.
A Lexus,
the Ford Explorer with slouched fender,
generations of Toyotas,
at least twelve Civics,
have become like holy sepulchers. Now
they wait for owners,
to clatter out in loafers
and heels on rainy pavement.
For this hour cars have together
in fellowship under clouds,
light poles, crosses,
they mingle and wonder
at how much to-do
their drivers make over one guy
who took three days. They almost chuckle,
the cars,
whose owners will
resurrect them as usual
with the key and adjustment
of knobs.
Such miracles,
witnessed daily,
in the name of getting somewhere else.