Catholic Guilt

Cara burns incense in our bedroom
on Sunday's and it smells like the church
I grew up going to on vacation.
The one with wooden pews
and a second collection for central air.

At home, our church never had incense
or a bell that rang before the Consecration,
Mass was in a gymnasium
with basketball nets overhead.
With nothing to kneel on, we'd rest our elbows on
our knees when we prayed, hands clasped.

There's no use in counting the Sundays since
I said The Our Father, or since we've
been to the beach. I still haven't decided if
anyone's listening.