as the basket comes around

from childhood,

i know

the rituals, the script

by heart,

the kneeling

upon entry,

crossing my heart.

the confessional booth

shaded dark.

forgive me 
Father for I have sinned.

i know

what comes next,

the Hail Mary's,

the Our Fathers.

communion,

etc.

the blessing,

pray for the sick

and dying.

etc.

etc.

potluck on Tuesday.

and as the basket comes around

i take in the art,

the statues,

the embroidery of gold.

the chalice,

the gowns.

i'm just not there,

despite

believing. at times

this all seems

like a giant cup of crazy

and i can't help

but wonder

how did it get to this?