The Magdeline
I have this urge to sway
on street corners in a derelict way,
disheveled - a little drunk,
with an impulse to praise Mary,
not the virgin, but her
less immaculate namesake.
Perhaps the sound of my prayers
will de-ice parked cars, straighten
shopping cartwheels, save a kid's
balloon from escaping?
Blessed is the fruit of thy 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 cruiser.
The cops are smiling; she is smiling
they have done this before.
An old man in a thin jacket
huddles cold bones
against a wolfish wind.
He will survive its killing teeth.
Look!
It is Happy Hour.
the Magdalene will be serving,
tending to both good company
and bad.
“Now and at the hour of our death".
"Let us share one last
imperfect breath.”
Declares a racoon
from its holy dumpster.
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