Straighten your sweater and pocket those
poppers, it's Wednesday Mass. We move like
baby cows through the unadorned vestibule,
into the church adjacent
to our crotch-scented gymnasium.
Entering, one might wonder if
this place was designed for an angel
whose eternal musk did not smell
unlike a dollar store candle. We dab
our temples with blessed water, purchased
in bulk from Jewel-Osco, while icons rendered
in stained glass stare pervertedly.
Our Lady Of Humility headlocks me
in puberty as I become visibly
erect for no reason. No angel
can soften the lone Episcopalian.
My friend Nathan cleverly drops acid
at the end of the pew. I catch a whiff
of fish sticks as Father Radcliff passes,
his head as stubby as the cock of
Donatello's David. Two rows up,
God appears in the form of Lynette
Schrader's blonde hair. Like an angel,
she sleeps quietly, dreaming her way out.