9 O'Clock Mass

The priest grouches

at a skinny altar boy

for screwing up

the Latin response.

The old man's reddening cheeks 

and boozy breath

weave into his mumbled

praying over the sacred

host while the blonde kid

in the 14th pew yanks

a pair of pink fancypants

from her shiny patent leather

purse, holding the cotton

underwear above her curls 

to show the entire congregation,

many of whom were absentmindedly

watching Father Smedley raise the host

above his balding head in a consecration

of consternation.

Her older sister nervously 

tickles her sweet philtrum--

that tiny bobsled track

running from a quivering

upper lip to the ivory floor

of her turned-up nose--

and wishes she were anywhere

but here in the 14th pew

as she makes the sign of the cross,

kicks her sister in a bony shin

before telling their mom she needs

to go to the bathroom NOW.