Where the Silence Sits

Another glossy card came today.

Confirmation.

Some kid I don't know, a name I can't place,

all neat script and proper faith.

The address was printed there, same old stone.

That chipped paint on the sign, half-gone

beneath the overgrown green,

like something forgotten, or never seen.

I remember the pews, hard wood,

the way the light sometimes stood

in dust-shafts, thick and slow.

And the silence, after they'd go.

That's what stayed with me, not the word.

Just the quiet, sharp and unheard

until everyone left, shuffling out.

Then, only the hollow, no doubt.