You there! blackened gum on the sidewalk –
I consecrate you. A dark host
for a dark celebrant.
And you, man walking your dog at 6AM –
I bless the parables in your teeth,
clacking to stay awake.
For at this hour I am the Bishop of everything
but never finally touching,
that doesn’t hang together, connect.
Slip sliding away to infinity
I raise my arm in Taxi benediction –
the Blessing of the Fleet
a checkered yellow –
I am Pope and cornerman to box shrubs
in my square priory, my tiny park.
A voice pulls at my elbow
from a window far above:
"Take off that silly paper hat!
What are you doing out there!
Act your age just for once,
and get back in here before it rains!"
My mood darkens, whom/what
will I excommunicate
with a wave of my crosier, my
Congregants pass unrepentant
with their strollers and scooters.
How will I bring the morning
its salvation, like an everything bagel
warm in the bag – when it refuses the wine
of my poems, so cross-eyed with gall.
This crucified dawn. This Sunday that slants
to salvation or damnation.
The Sunday Muse