There's a girl from Dutch Country
Who kneads this heart inside of me
She's beautiful, a treat to see
A singing angel, that is she
A true companion to a T
I see compatibility
My dreams of her change me to we
Perhaps someday those dreams shall be
Always in black, Fr. McShane
raises cathedral hands and intones,
‘our brother is finally home.’
Absolved of the fight to contain
a lifetime of tears
in this ceremonial splendor
I just have to wonder.
His Nikes are ‘home’
in the walk-in closet,
aren’t they?
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
August 31, 2012
Lucky day! Father McShane was on the altar.
I knelt in gratitude, in silent applause.
He said mass faster than the lead car in a drag race.
Hosts flew and before we knew it: “Ite, missa est.” *
The nine a.m. ritual was well worth it on Sundays with daddy.
Out of the mist of sneezy incense, enclosed in glass tabernacles
food for the soul of another kind awaited us at the Brewster bakery.
Father and daughter a spiritual team of confectionary communicants,
were in search of the one true doughnut, the absolute muffin.
My father kept us ever faithful.
*Go, the Mass is ended
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
June 14, 2012
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