Alms

I knew he was already there,
squatted in the narthex during mass,
challenging our devotion.
I had it prepared,
but not his manner of taking –
the hasty way he stashed it
in his grimy rucksack, a thief
suddenly in possession of treasure.

In fact, I confess, I had not chosen
the biggest, choicest fruit,
but the one I wanted least.
And in my home, under my roof,
enough to fill a thousand sacks
and even some pomanders
to spice the house. Their incense
of the sweetest oranges, rotten.