Lent — What It Always Wasn’t
Acrostic poem for the season
Leaning on a wooden bench — five-year-old eyes peering up at the priest
Entering some form of mystic trance, he sings on and on in Latin
Not understanding the words but liking their sound —
Telling myself there must be some reason for there being so many of them
Sitting still, silently wishing they were all gone, so it was just me and a god I came to see