The Magdalene

I have this urge to sway on street corners in a derelict way, disheveled, a little drunk, an impulse to praise Mary, not the Virgin, but her less immaculate namesake. 'Hail Mary, full of grace, Our Lord is with you.' Perhaps the sound of my voice will de-ice parked cars, straighten shopping cartwheels, save a kid's balloon from escaping? 'Blessed are you among women, And blessed the fruit of your womb.' The fruit of your womb goes downtown. A truck narrowly misses a cat. A door is held open for an expectant mother. A smile from a mean looking youth. It begins to rain. Snow turns to slush. The winter evening slaps our cheeks. 'Pray for us sinners.' A handcuffed Magdalene steps into a police cruiser. The cops are smiling. She is smiling. They have done this before. 'Now and at the hour of our death.' An old man in a thin jacket huddles cold bones against a wolfish wind. He will arrive, survive these killing teeth. It is Happy Hour. The Magdalene will be serving, tending in her own way, to good company and bad. 'Our Lord is with you'. ~~