On the avenue

I learned an Easter song

in a trailer that doubled as a schoolroom.

Feeling accomplished at age 7

pronouncing “rotogravure”

in a deep southern lilt

my parents mocked incessantly.

Years don’t seem to pass at Easter.

The hymns are the same. Same eggs.

Same palms from last week.

It’s a tired week, solemn

though many claim it’s a joy,

which it’s supposed to be.

I’ve always been confused by that.

Can’t quite get a grip

on what I was taught about going to hell

versus being worth anyone’s time,

let alone worth saving,

unless the savior is a hoarder

like of matchbooks and ticket stubs,

things used and meant to be discarded.

I’ve never managed an Easter bonnet either,

what with all the wild hair.

When I walk down the avenue,

it’s with more surety than I feel

and less pizzazz than I’d like

though maybe that’s what’s meant to be.