It couldn’t mean anything in the end
all of us disheveled and lined up disorderly 
singing O Canada to the muzak pumped 
through the PA system otherwise 
reserved for trouble trouble trouble 
then silence and Mrs. S intoning 
the prayer

and we said something about our 
hollow fathers (they were 
hungry too, we knew it even then)

and Jesus I thought for sure was in 
Calgary where my uncle lived with 
half the island beautiful in black tea 
sartorial tar sand streaks of wet charcoal 
and the boys in their boats

And who wanted anything to do with forgiveness 
if it meant not getting Timmy after school

What could it mean O what could it mean
for kids on the Eastern shore forty years ago
the Lord’s Prayer before arithmetic 

except now daily daily daily
the stone-filled stomach
and what bread