by Ken Wuetcher
Catholic guilt,
as a child it ate me up,
no different on this night.
It seized hold of me
like a nun pulling my earlobe.
What had I done?
I was paralyzed.
I sat looking at the red shag carpeting.
The oak bookcase filled with Catholic writers:
Walker Percy, Evelyn Waugh
Graham Greene, Flannery O’Connor.
The answer came to me
like a Joycean epiphany,
Dad.
He looked out the window,
held a mug of coffee,
a plume of steam rose.
I told him that I had borrowed a
piece of bubble gum from
Mary’s Mart and the guy
said I could pay him back tomorrow.
Dad gave me a peculiar look but
reached into his pocket and pulled
out a small silver dime.
Next day I entered Mary’s Mart.
An old guy stood at the counter
like a priest guarding the tabernacle.
Tall and thin and dressed in black.
He looked down at me.
I reached up to him with the dime.
A quizzical expression crossed his face,
“What’s this for?”
“I owed it to you from yesterday.”
He squinted at me,
puzzled.
Grinned, “Okay.”
I dropped the dime in his palm,
damp from my perspiration.
Then ran out the door
like I was running from the confessional booth.
Bells rang,
GUILTY.
Ken Wuetcher lives in Louisville, KY. He holds a MA in English Literature from DePaul University in Chicago. His writing has been published in the Avalon Literary Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, Genosko Literary Journal, The Main Street Rag, Pulsar Poetry and WestWard Quarterly.