Sunday morning coming down and letting go

After service this morning we lingered, we three:
The Reverend Golightly, my dear wife, and me.
The sun streamed in as we stood by the door,
The stained glass tinting the old wooden floor.
I relaxed for a second, and then with a sigh
My breakfast beans blew quietly by.

I thought I’d escaped, and I would have had if
It hadn’t been quite so much of a whiff.
My wife ceased her chatting, sniffed, and said, “Pooh!”
Then gazed at me sternly, “Was that awful smell you?”

She gave me a Look, and my heart gave a lurch;
What, admit before God that I’d farted in church?
“Of course not, my dear,” I said without thinking,
Standing my ground as they both stood there blinking.
A moment of hush, and the reverend mused,
“Oh! It must have been me then. Please do excuse!”