Sunday Ritual

 

Ralph Dranow

 

Every Sunday she scuttles

Into the bookstore on bird legs,

Disappears into the tall stacks

To resurface about an hour later

Clutching three used mysteries,

Always three used mysteries.

I ring up her books

And count out her change

Trying to remember not to give her

A bag, bookmark or receipt

Because an irate flame

Flares in her eyes

If I forget.

If I don't slip up,

Her sharp features teeter

On the edge of a smile

And she thanks me

In a hushed voice

As if we're in church.

Then her wrinkled hands

Scoop up her books,

Cupping them like spring water.

She turns toward the door

And her weekly communion

With the unmasking of evil.