Walk the goofy walk of the
Galilee clown, laughing at
denarii or spilling the coins
in anger amid the pigeons
and lambs, music of the
heavens, lyrics by sacred
hoboes huddled over
dollar coffees on a brown
McDonald’s morning, as
Brother Sir Laborer repairs
the wind-cracked door again
and Sister Pain practices her
hymn harmony, seeking true
joy toward the light that
pulls her like a magnet.
Ask her about her happinesses.
Wash like a mother the feet
of the uncertain guy with the
Egg McMuffin. Tell him it
comes with the fries. Accept
half of his apple pie, hungry
as you are, as, outside, a
kind of raven seems to hover.
Go quietly with the courteous
cops to the sidewalk and then
on your silly way. They want to
serve and protect and get home.
Patrick T. Reardon, a frequent contributor to our Lit page, wrote this as he considered the conclave about to begin that will elect a new pope to succeed the late Pope Francis.