of the saints and their Plaster-of-Paris statues

as I recall before I shanghaied myself

to the diners, there were two of them of note:

Saint Joseph and Saint Anthony.

then of course Michael the Archangel

spearing the serpent..

and there’s a good one in the corner

of dead Jesus draped across the lap

of Mary, his mother, always the same

expression of overwhelming sorrow.

but on the early approach through the interior

I passed the holy water vessel, quite unsanitary

what with all the working class fingers dipping in

on a weekly basis,–– always three fingers

of the right hand, the three to the immediate

right of the thumb. there’s a process, you see.

then the altar, then the saints, always a tentative stone.

that's the church.

I played baseball for this church. left field;

navigated my rawhide strung 5-fingered glove

through the handlebars then pedaling somewhere into the distance.

destination it’s called.