The church on Whitehall Street
rings in the new hour,
an open call to prayer.
Down the nave, a cantor’s son
strums a tune on a guitar
his father bought him years before.
His father taught him to sing
hymns of faith, told him he must
never bring home a Gentile girl –
they talk too fast,
they’ll hook you up lazy
Thunder heralds a downpour
that mars this perfect afternoon.
The scent of drenched girl turns him.
Mass begins. He strides forward,
his father close behind, perches
the guitar on a pew and marries
her in front of strangers.
The guitar falls
and breaks
