. . .
J-'s leather jacket and blue jeans fit
as well on Wednesday as did the collar
he wore to work on Sundays.
It was a Wednesday, and in the bar
the boy was speaking the Spanish of
J-'s extra Mass each Saturday.
They spoke. They left together.
They didn't speak of what each did
in service to God or Mammon.
Climaxing in the safety of darkness,
the boy muttered a low, unintended,
"Gracias, Diosito*, gracias."