Singers

The boy waits, late as ever.
Hears distant chorus, warm,
unknowable behind frosted glass.
Shapes sway through the door, a suggestion.

His guide heaves those heavy doors,
opening a cold greatness.
He's small.
The angels are many.
They cease and turn to stare.
He doesn't know whether his tears are at
their divine chorus or the stabbing judgement
that draws anxious blood.

For ten and two years, his Saturdays will
become fulfilling purgatory, thrust
through those frosted doors.
The fear remains,
but masked, he comes angelic,
and performs
belonging.

Always other.
Always late.