Conversion

I have become bold in my insistence on non-conformity,
having re-birthed out of
the sin of church-halls in boxes
lined row on row by crosses
mixed up and faltering at the hip.
Too old and rusty,
they need a little oil in the hinges,
a little life in the bones
(a little bit of Smugglers on a long winters night)
You pluck a tune on your guitar, the one they all forgot.
I know the sound.
I remember.
There must be some way out.
This round's on me.