the old white Catholic
Bible in
a box,
the one my
mother bought from a traveling
bible
salesman
back in fifty-nine,
back when
men wore hats and suits,
brown
shoes
and ties.
it was colorful
and scary,
Christ on the cross, angels.
Da Vinci
and Rembrandt.
Michelangelo
and Raphael.
it was seven easy payments
of nine-ninety five.
which
angered my father to no end.
not believing
in either heaven
or hell, or the fact that
he would
one day die.
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