When we were kids, we folded our
small peasant hands, freshly washed,
into imaginary cathedrals, mouthing
to our invisible father, his earthly son,
and, strangely, a ghost which we
could only presume to be benevolent.
We prayed in earnest, though sometimes
in haste or with unappreciated humor,
prayed beneath that familiar painting
of an old man, also in prayer, weary
yet grateful for his daily crust of bread.
He seemed somehow holy, and yet
as ordinary as any among us.
I wondered if he might offer up one
on behalf of us poor sinners, who
always seemed on the cusp of eviction,
of fleeing again by cover of night,
our offerings too small to be noticed,
our debts to the Lord, and to those
who claimed to be in his service, unpaid.
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