My Cardboard Balcony

Our Five AM Mass by Belinda Roddie The lights are still on in the church when the sun comes up, and if you look through the stained glass windows, you can see the halos shining from the head of every flower child swaying to the hypnotizing trill of the choir. Glasses of sacramental wine, unblessed, are served to anyone who wants to taste the facade of redemption. In the corner, two men wearing lipstick kiss while counting their rosaries. The odor of the incense mingles with the perfume worn by the priest. There is God in this holy house still, and he is the one at the organ. His fingers light up with each skip across the keys. He dances, and his robes catch the colors like a prism and reflect them back into space, which is big and grand and all knowing, all loving, all enveloping, all.

Don't say hello the gardener, the one wearing the cap so red. He'll squirt you with his hose and stick flowers up your nose and he'll slam his rake on top on your head. Don't say hello to the gardener, with the droopy jowl and permanent frown. If he had only caught a train or a just ascending plane to a new life in a brand new town.