Chapel

We're not religious around here, and if we see a cross, we bend it into the shape of a star. For the cosmos is our great love, and we kiss pictures of the Milk Way before we go to sleep and do erotic things to giant telescopes. The chapel, though, regrets letting us move next door. It's now surrounded by houses and houses of ex-scientists, who still remember what a theory feels like in their hands just before they fire at the latest bad experiment. The chapel's monks like to play on the swing sets and pass their Bibles to one another. We'd like to break up their games, shout like an old man who's forgotten what spiritual joy is. We'd love to take off their brown dresses and outfit them in clothes that don't need ropes around the waist. Lately, a comet might prove to be our answer, if we can summon it with our machines. The pews would explode after being hit, the parishioners would call it The End of the World and expect to gain their souls and lose their clothes. The paintings of saints would melt, a martyrdom to art, and stained glass windows would crack like a safe worked on by a master criminal. If it doesn't happen, we might have to learn to co-exist. The foundations of life support everyone, whether they believe in them or not.