"I'm Catholic"

She had dyed black hair;
black surrounded the white
polka dots on her oversized
vinyl purse.

Alone she stood, while others
sat, leaned on, and knelt below
the church pews.
Her pale calf trumped her thin ankle
as it disappeared into a silver dance flat
leaving no clue as to what color her toenail
polish was on Good Friday.

Supposedly devout male parishioners
collected offerings—
their grandchildren play basketball
in CYO recreation.
Members of the congregation softly placed
coins in the velvet covered baskets;
the more they give, the more they care.
Not to be found out as cheapo or sinner,
others offer the kind that folds.

Lines formed and I was told we were
to go “venerate the crucifix,”
and myself ignorant of where to kiss,
in a hurry was humbled to kiss his feet.

Afterwards, I looked to find the girl in black—
like me, younger, out of place,
perhaps to joke about our cluelessness
or maybe a vain inquiry on how many germs
she thought were on that wooden whatchamacallit.