Sunday Best

When I was a boy presentation of self was entirely
a matter of manners, especially so on Sunday—
hair combed, tie cleanly knotted, suit sharply pressed,
shoes all a-glimmer, posture impeccable.

In a family of ten we’d often worship in shifts and,
shuttled off on my own to early service,
I’d amble the three blocks east
down Mahantongo Street to St. Patrick’s Church.

It was obligation, not imperative, that drove me there
way back when the mass was still in Latin and,
after yet another week of parochial school,
I hadn’t the humor for one more liturgy.

Every so often, though not often enough,
at the very last moment my feet would dodge me away
from that gothic edifice and carry me farther on down
to Centre Street where all the stores were closed.

I’d meander with solitary ease, a figure of leisure,
as though indifferent to this threadbare little town.
The affectation of a grown up stride almost fueled
the impression that the manners were paying off.

And for what—the tiny thrill of a ten-year-old
blatantly blowing off God,
of gawking with guile into unlit storefronts,
of ticking away one interminably gray hour

until I could return home under the guise
of one who’d been suitably sermonized—
despite not a single break in the crease of his trousers,
as though one might have spent any time on his knees.