Sunday Sonnet

D doesn't care where I graduated from school
or that my best church-going shoes are hiking boots
D doesn't really care what translation I use
or that my guitar is hardly ever in tune

D doesn’t care about my Appalachian twang
or that some, if not most, of my sermons are train
wrecks, or that all of the hymns under my fingers
groan like the blues and we meet where they play bingo

D doesn’t care about my stories or my plots
or my notes on the words from the carpenter’s cross
but she is quite happy about one of the arts
that I have practiced and mastered, at least in part,
the art of holding one of her hands, not too tight,
while pushing her wheelchair, a steady pace and straight