-That which is beyond my grasp and other misadventures-

As I looked at the photograph in the morning’s paper

of Stockholm's “Prize Committee” I was again instructed as to
how far removed I live from their world.

I'd look like a tuxedo'd tube of Grumbacher "flesh" in Stockholm.

I also realized how far removed I live from the world

of the Poet selected by the “Prize Committee”. After all,

what the hell do I know about the "Sombreros of Autumn"?

Years earlier, Priest spoke to me

about my “altar boy” application presented to him

by my mother my father my grandfather and my grandmother.

The sacristy smelled like a cheap port; a little acidic

approaching the acid scent of vinegar with a touch,

only a touch, mind you, of the grape.

Am I recalling my grandfather’s deep purple-stained,

everyday, every-single-day cardigan?

I’m also sure that my weekly attendance

at catechism classes worked in my favor.

The constant bops to the back of my head with a flexible bible

were delivered by a Priest now dead, so

new Priest was unaware of my transgressions.

His baritone was measured.

His breath smelled like the sacristy’s atmosphere.

He asked if I knew the rosary.

I told him: no, but I had family connections.

He asked me if I was aware that "self abuse
was a sin against God".

I wanted to ask: “Where in hell did that come from"?

But sad-faced I answered: “Probably, Father".

I was shown my surplice and cassock

hanging in a cedar closet, was told it was my responsibility
to keep it clean (“Clean from what, Father”?)

and was given the schedule of pre,"real altar boy" classes to attend.
New Priest blessed me with a near perfect “sign of the cross”––

that limp-wrist, nonchalant, two-fingered zigzag and sent me on my way 

to join my friends for a sneaky smoke in the dugout at the first base line.

Back in Stockholm, I think those who selected the "Prize Committee" got it right.

so, amen again and amen.