The gaslight’s on,
the bills are due,
and I don’t know
if I’ll make it this time.
I find my feet taking me,
as they often do,
to the place, where optimism is distilled.
I soon find my head bent at my altar
of red, crushed leather
and polished walnut,
sticky sweet with ferment.
Praying in the manner
my father taught me,
fingers furiously counting laps
on my brown glass rosary.
Here, I ask and receive
my daily bread.
Here I find my fellowship.
I look to the familiar faces
of the congregation.
Their warm laughter and quiet despair
Mingle in the dimly lit room.
Becoming one.
Inseparable.
I look to find the shepherd
dutifully tending his flock.
Receiving confession
and ensuring everyone is
under the influence
of the spirit.
I walk home content.
My troubles forgotten.