Waiting for the Rapture

During Wednesday night prayer meetings
I waited for the preacher to get hot.
I waited until I wouldn't be noticed
and then I'd slip away
out the door, holding my breath
out into the cool and sinful world
hoping my father couldn't hear
that heavy door closing behind me.

I found a ladder behind the church;
I could climb to the roof of the house of God
my mind's eye still aflame
with snapshots of Hell.
I could sit in the shingles up there
among the billion eyes of an angry god, blinking.
I waited for the fierce worship
raging under me to end.

I waited for some of the stars
to morph into trumpets and blaze
calling every body but me
to drop every thing and go --
to drop their car keys and skin conditions,
to rise through the roof where I sat.

I waited to see Sister Popkin
flailing her fat legs
swimming up toward Orion.
I waited to see Sister Bertha
dropping her blue vinyl purse
from the Van Allen Belt
and I waited to see the sky
slamming shut behind them all.