Kicking Home the Bait Can

I drop to my knees on the impulse of prayer, fold my fingers inward to construct the little church, pop up my pointers to erect the steeple. I open my hands and look at the people my fingers represent. One has a sliver embedded near a blister. Other than this they all look the same, stained by the clods I broke up for worms. I wiggle them, stupidly. Then I unclasp my hands and set them free.