Bored in Sunday School

In better times,
we would have been best friends,

growing up with pals down the street,
with our Davy Crockett hats, and our Johnny
    Unitas helmets,

after school was our first attempts at understanding
the head and shoulder movements of the opposite sex,

such mysterious lamentations of nature,
we also were becoming bored in Sunday school,
figuring all this talk of morals was bad for our
    young souls,
we had worlds and mountains to conquer,
our chapter in history had yet to be written,
all of us could do it better than
it had been done before!

the afternoon matinee became the Saturday night
    chick
flick,
where we suddenly were consumed with our looks,
    and if our
hair and nose were the correct lengths for our species,

we did not care, in the beginning, that our lovers were
    the fruitful results
of aloofness, we held them secure in the dreamland
    epitaph of insecure country boys
who prayed, not to the Sunday god, but that deity who
    ran naked from

the Garden of Eden,

when these starlets whispered “I love you”, we were
    certain
our aging would stop,

those blue eyes held us dear,
their ample breastplate provided cover,
their legs, wrapped round us,

until the next sunlight
awakened the merging of passion,

and the future,
was a bitter cough drop,
yet, swallowed,