Acolytes

An usher recruits a pair of little boys

from the sparse July congregation.

No, they don’t have to wear the sissy

white robes. Outside, a kid on skateboard 

loves the half-empty parking-lot

for leaps over curb-stones

then down our handicap ramps,

back onto softened asphalt.

*

The usher’s lighter sizzles butane

like those bearings, scuffed wheels 

beyond our stained glass. The wick pokes

forth then acolytes march up parallel

aisles. Tapers at the altar are hidden,

mischievous, dodging nervous flame

in rookie hands. The ink-stained

youth outdoors hisses airborne.