FERRARIS AND FIRST COMMUNIONS
There's a red Testarossa parked in front
of Our Lady of Pompeii. Third graders
preparing to receive God for the first time
figure that maybe this is a sign.
My daughter is in white crinoline,
distressed by her gown -- holds it up
as she sidesteps a classmate. We pick our way
into church -- search for the probable owner.
Eyes adjusted to the lower intensity of light,
we scour the congregation for a sunglass --
wearing Mephistophelean figure lurking
in the back of the church with earplugs
and a Discman -- listening to Judas Priest.
All we see are the alms-collectors who stand
ready to canvass the pews' occupants.
Undeterred we look up at the balcony,
half-expecting the Ferrari's proprietor,
a halter-top diva, to wave at niece or nephew.
The commune with God complete -- we emerge
and the car is gone, replaced by a hearse;
a peacock transposed into a crow. My daughter
blows at her bangs about her brow and says,
"This must be the one He takes to work."
Adirondack Review, Thunder Sandwich, Verse Libre Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Electric Acorn, Unlikely Stories, Poor Mojo's Almanac, The Breath, Another Toronto Quarterly, Snow Monkey , etc.
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