LAETARE

The last of the mass goers
Walked past the creaking metal jamb
Of the half closed church door…

Then it began,the quietest time,
I say the most solemn,
In a typical Sunday’s basket
Of rituals and mishaps
And seemingly endless stats
Of bobbing heads in dreamland.

With only the faint smell
Of dying, stringed jasmines wafting through stolid air
As my faithful companion, I dare
To unearth the joy I thought I saw
In the faces of this midday’s crowd
From deep within my well,
I can tell
I can't!

And I’m afraid
That not even a thousand strikes
From the staff of blessed Moses
Can wring a few drops
Nor wet my dog-like nose’s
Probe into this heart that’s tired and cold.

And so proceeds my second vespers
Of cries and longings no one hears
Save him who sits with me through this,
The one who called me brother.