Twitching Hour Poem by Fleance Candide

Solemn faces stare blankly ahead
Like statues of ice; there is but a cold glare.
A look

Of disgust
As I twitch and the words tumble out.
Electricity in the air. A jagged strike
At indecency. I look up, clasp my hands,
Asking - begging - for forgiveness. But
I meet a man’s eyes of sunken fire -
A cruel skull burning into mine.
The other’s ignore me. He is livid.
A disdainful glance is enough. No pity.
I twitch again. A loathsome look
As harmless words colour the air
With static.

He is in black.
Tears litter every face but his alone.
Silence. The final prayer. He stops.
I am sobbing. Sobbing too loudly;
Words not water. Too loudly
So he proudly points me out.
I can’t control it: a rush of words
And the air trembles once again
With heat. People turn their heads.

I sniff.

A woman wet with tears
Ambles over. She smiles comfortingly -
A face lined, but shining with kindness.
She holds my hand

And I mumble my thanks.
My terrible, ugly thanks that flows out unasked.
She returns to contemplation but he stares still.
Glaring…

And the collection plate is passed round
Solemn faces. There is not usually one, but -
Today is different; inside the wooded box
Rests the saint who willed it so

To be disturbed
By the crackle of ten pound notes.
I take from my pocket a grubby disc
And dropp it in with clang and clatter.
A metallic rattle - they all hear it.
His look is contemptuous,
My face is hot. I try to apologize
But the words are lost. Lost to a twitch
Tearing the air. The widow rubs my shoulder -
And tells me “Its fine dear…”
But in his eyes I see a triumph.
He glides off; the service is over
But the counting is yet to begin.
He offers me one last arrogant smile
And locks the manse to suffer. Hidden
Beneath his kind words there was nothing,
Beneath his empty words there was nothing.
But beneath my harsh words - she told me -
Are kind thoughts

And a smile.