After Mass

Lit Up — January’s Prompt

You’re driving home in the early hours

after mass, not even the distant

sound of movement — only the action

of electric lights, the only sign

of artificial life that even bothers.

You suspect even the cops are sleeping –

the world in its rare moment

of reverence, awake and silent.

Even the laws of Physics, like the one

that creates the hum of asphalt rolling

against tire, stops on a membrane of ice.

The stoplight changes — green to gold to red

in slow motion as you approach. Everything

does its job in a spirit of awe. And the worshippers

who walked with you into the cold, into the night,

are now only twin pairs of angry eyes

appearing as red lights, easy to leave behind

in the distance of your rearview mirror.

And the neighbors you’re sure, are asleep,

seventy-two hours from the darkest day.

You sit in your driveway under the glow

of electric icicles, the gaze of an inflatable Santa

and its compressor’s rhythmic sigh. You’re waiting

to save something from this moment,

some knowledge you might bring back into the world

of words — if you can only stay long enough.

Finally you open the door, stand,

close it quietly — the click, the sound of metal

key into lock, the familiar hinge creak, all

have purpose, clear in the silent night.

Empty walls, between the shadows, change

with the lights, turning green to gold to red

and back — and you feel yourself turn, too.