It goes without saying

that on Sundays we dress,

paying attention

to what would be best

for focus on God—

not on what others wear;

not their hats,

nor their shoes,

or the style of their hair.

Clothed in the armor of God-

And the garments of praise

perhaps bowing in silence,

or shouting, hands raised.

Not a matter of clothing,

but the best we might bring,

as we gather to bow

before Savior and King.

Yet each saintly lady

who squirms in her pew,

when the speaker speaks long,

as they often do—

Isn’t thinking of kickoff—

as he winds up his speech—

or the roast in the oven

not sand at the beach,

not even how hot

it’s gonna be in the car—

she’s itchin’ for ditchin’ that

push-up,

underwire,

Sunday-best

bra!