by Kenneth Pobo —
I didn’t fall
away from the church—I ran,
though I liked many of the people.
Mrs. Larch had babysat me.
Mr. Edwards rescued me
from drowning. Both believed
that the Earth was 6000 years old,
no less real than believing Elvis
sang on the moon. I hadn’t expected
to see pastor here at Cal’s Tap.
Our pleasantries floated toward
evolution. To my surprise,
he said he believed it, licking salt
off the margarita glass. This could
get him fired. When I told him
I had an abortion, he shrugged,
picked up the tab. Secrets
and a smell of French fries,
the light outside the door,