Grace

In the old man's mind's eye

he saw his faith as like

a broken stained glass

window in the church

where he had learned

comforting psalms as a child,

when his kindergarten innocence

was still intact but cracking. 

His grace.

insubstantial as a moth

disappearing

in the altar candle's flame.

He found comfort -sometimes-

on rainy weekday afternoons

drowsing in a back row pew

sheltered from the latest news.

Sunday services were too much.

Too much goodwill, too much love

which he found difficult to reciprocate.

But he loved the music, so

he tried to be invisible

wrapped deep within his overcoat,

joining the joyous songs softly

a ventriloquist would be proud.

He always left

before the service ended,

found his favorite bench

in the park across the street

where he could sit unnoticed

as the elderly often seem to be,

a fragment of the landscape

like the pigeons and the elms.