Papa,an ill fit in civilian garb.
Even during worship,
Vietnam sat heavy on his chest.
Never distant from explosions,
  he heaved himself from wooden pew,
stalked down solemn aisle.
Voice boomed,
riddled with expletives,
he declared Mass,
  no place for hippies and their guitars
as he plunged through outside doors,
headfirst into his next battle,
  or his next remorse.
We, with tender bones,
were left to face his aftermath.
In white patents and crimson cheeks,
I crouched low in the kneeler.
  sought solace in a bunker of pews
    against an ambush of whispers.
Relief was soon found in song
which swallowed awkward air.
And I wondered
if the peaceful voice of guitars had no place in mass,
how exactly did cussing fit in?