Thoughts During Mass: in the Back, from a Wheelchair

In Mass today
I broke off a thumbnail,
Rolled the thing around,
And laid the crescent in the hammock
Of my lap.
Examined its insides,
Small crease of skin
That had crept up to grow
Along the wall
Of the silent sliver
Now independent of my fingertips.
Thought about dropping
This tiny piece of human foliage
On the floor,
But decided this act
Would be inappropriate
In this sacristy of spiritual myth.

Wondered what I’d have to eat
When I got home,
T. V. dinner or Mac & Cheese
Maybe splurge
On some of that pseudo-Chinese
They cook up down the road.
My mother,
Giant human stress ball
Of nags and worries,
How she’d be calling me
Before the end of the night,
The joke Rachel told me
Over two days ago:
What do you call a prostitute in a wheelchair?
The answer: Meals on Wheels.

Then I giggled out loud—
Happens often enough,
At least once every week,
It’s their fault for dragging the service
On for so long,
I can’t keep quiet for a whole
Hour and a half
At a time,
At least I didn’t
Fall asleep again and
Roll down the aisle—
And then I remembered God,
Who I was there for, anyway.