What Happened at the Church

When I was still young
we stopped going to church.
Although I was glad, I
didn’t know why Dad gave in.

With my colored pencils, I drew
pictures of Indians on odd horses.
Hanging them on the refrigerator,
both Mom and Dad said they were good.

Mom would get up real early to
pack Dad’s lunch bucket—
a thermos of coffee, a ham and
cheese sandwich, a peanut butter sandwich,
and an orange, peeled and divided
in two because he had only
a half hour to sit down and eat.

Mom would fry bacon and make
scrambled eggs and toast with apple butter.
Perry Como sang “Catch a Falling Star” on the radio.
With scratchy whiskers, Dad kissed me,
smelling of coffee, as he opened the cold back door.

The night of the spaghetti dinner
in the church basement, the three long
rows of tables were set with a hundred plates.
Mom went down the rows setting the silverware.

Then Mrs. Stuckey came in and
went down the rows herself
rearranging the knives and forks properly.