-on the lighter side-

Kneeling at my side on the third

Step to the alter,

I noticed the hem of the cassock

Draped across the heels of his sneakers.
Standing before us, draped in white garment,

Monsignor Pannoni is opening the tabernacle

Pulling the chalice out of it as a matter of course.

He takes the veil from its cup and drapes it

Across his forearm.

He will use this veil to wipe his fingers

Of water and wine.

My friend is to my right and as such

Is required to ring the sanctus bells

Opening the communion.

Sitting in the pew at his funeral,

Thoughts of that moment come to me;

Of when we were kids, friends and Alter Boys

Of our neighborhood church.

I smile recalling him twisting his wrist

Like a fast mechanic with a socket-wrench,

Ringing the array

Of cast-iron bells at his hand, bursting sound

Into the silent atmosphere of the consecration.

When Bobby Petrillo rose to gather

The cruets of wine and water,

Sitting on the little table at his side of the alter,

So that Pannoni could drink the wine

Which Bobby would pour into the chalice,—

So that Pannoni could wash his fingers

With the water Bobby would pour over them

Into the chalice,—

The hem of his cassock didn’t give way

At the heels of his sneakers, and he tumbled

Backward in a rollicking summersault.

At the alter, I knew this would happen.

In the pew, I remember that moment.

                                     Quequechan