The poor box.

Shaffer, Eric Paul

The Poor Box

   My mother called it the poor box, a scarred square with a lock
   of brass hung from a tongue-and-latch hinge. The silver of steel

   shone through scratches in white paint. We paused near the box
   as she dipped fingers in a basin and made a sign of the cross,
   the same cross adorned by the bloody man hung above the pews.

   Behind red glass on the altar was a flame to recall the presence
   of God. I yearned to peek. Everything beneath the vaulted roof

   enclosed mystery as the church enclosed us, under rough beams
   lofty enough to cover the promises. The church was silent,
   and the rows were empty. My mother chose the last and knelt.

   I knelt, passing my time gazing at windows glowing red, green,
   blue, and gold with glory and adoration. Dull daylight beyond
   the windows animated the gem-colored tales on the stained glass.

   In the station adorning the nearby wall was a thoughtless boy
   in a busy market, ignoring a beaten man fallen beneath a cross.
   When I returned later and alone, I dared not approach the flame

   behind the rail, so I crept to the slotted lid. When I pried open
   the battered box, the dented metal square contained only coins.