Incense and extinguished candles
Scent my small-town Saturday night.
Post-benediction, our priest returns to the rectory.
Stained-glass filters church light into the dusk.
A mourning dove signals daylight’s departure.
We wait at the corner store
for the truck from the city.
Sunday’s early edition is dropped on the curb.
Despite the masthead: “Free Press”, dad hands me a quarter.
I carry the bundle into the shop
and return with our copy.
We drive toward the farm.
I’m comparing color comics to stained-glass
discovering what trouble Dick Tracy is in this week.
