1967. I am in the nave
with hundreds of children,
singing Onward Christian Soldiers
as earnestly, loud, as on tune as I can
so that the man with the elegant white hair
will set my voice in the grooves—
singing from the Chancel stage
while all the others form my choir.
As he walks among us—
judging—
his robe swishes
like mother’s taffeta gown.
Surely, he sees my uplifted chin,
purposefully staring at the cross,
my pious little body.
Yet, he passes me by.
