I went to the Holy of Holies and all I got was this lousy t-shirt

I am a tourist in the house of God;My ephod is a lobster bib with whiteAnd scarlet threads that shimmer, growing brightWith butter, while I crack the claws with rodsOf onyx, cram the clams of old Cape CodUpon the four-horned altar, and delightIn His almighty presence, where a spiteFence hides and t-shirt shrouds all pious fraud.A God in fifteen minutes flat, or less,A drive across a bridge, a weekend tripAway, is not “authentic” holiness,For that’s a secret locals keep, their lipsAre sealed or closed in prayer, in winter theyMust go I know not where (for I don’t stay).—Greg Scalise ’18 is a Philosophy and Classics joint concentrator in Pforzheimer House.