We found him on an island
In the middle of the sea.
He had been there, he said,
Since early eighty-three.

He showed us his dwelling,
He had built up in a tree.
But we saw he’d built two more
And we asked why there were three.

He answered, looking down,
From his lofty tree house perch.
“That building over there
Is where I go to church.”

Then I asked about the third,
A run-down little shack
Sitting by itself
Way out in the back.

“You can’t be happy long,
In any church you know.
That other worthless hut
Is where I used to go!”