Glenn McPherson: ‘Jacket Potatoes’

Jacket Potatoes

Scarcely had he entered the vestry to disrobe
in exchange for the anorak he wore religiously
in this inveterate cold, when the sleet that steamed
against the green crucifix stained in the window
became cynosure. It is a temptation
to conspire when we notice his eyes,
at this point, are bluer and purer than prior
in the doxology, where trenches of parishioners once sat and
an almost audible sigh given up;
to imagine a particular euphoria inside.

Generally, speculation is a better ministry to obey
but the strange restraint borne in the cut
of his arms folded aft holds an allure untouched
by incrimination. It would be expedient to say
he lacks faith, at the moment he padlocks the door.
Fortunately the whimper we thought we heard
was no more than the acoustics of ice-swollen
leaves mapping a liturgy along the walls.

Familiarity leads him homeward like
the quiet eyes of tubers in the snow
beneath. No need to over-embellish the steps, the
stones, the breath’s methodical rise. For
all that he desires is to reach the mantle
of the fireplace, kick off wet shoes and
settle at the kitchen table to enjoy butter
liberally issued over jacket potatoes.

Glenn McPherson