Ash on a White Shirt

I wore a white shirt to a place I shouldn't
Came home gray as a winter road
Ash on the collar like a fingerprint of evening
Rye on the cuff where the shaking showed

Mama used to say don't mix the holy with the hollow
I mixed them anyway in a parking-lot light
Said grace over a bottle and a cheap cigar
And called it getting right

Preacher shook my hand like he smelled the story
Didn't ask, just looked at my chest
There's a gray little cross where the ember kissed me
I left it there. I wear the rest

Soap can take a stain
It can't take a night
I keep both on purpose
So I remember I ain't white as light