In response to the fellow parishioner
who called the cops after Thursday night choir practice,
saying,
“If we let one homeless person sleep
on the benches outside the church,
we have to welcome them all.
How many homeless people do you want sleeping here?”
As many as can tap dance
on the heads of the dirty needles
littering the alleys. Until the bedbugs
outnumber the congregants.
Until the vestibule reeks so badly
that incense cannot cover it.
Until we are condemned
by the Pharisees
and the Fire Department.
Until we are as weary as the destitute
and as safe as the apostles.
Until our hearts are collection plates
swollen with alms.
Until the wooden doors are as narrow
as the entrance to Heaven.
The devil would be shamed to see
a checkerboard of sleeping bags
playing backgammon in the courtyard.
Mourning doves perched on a clothesline
strung between steeples.
A swirl of coffee stirrers
dissolving into union with God.
Why call the police on a flock of angels
and order them to circle until,
exhausted, they fall from the sky?
The faithful cannot afford to believe
there are only so many fish
swimming in the baptismal font.
Only so many loaves of bread
in the tabernacle.
This poem first appeared in the 2023 issue of Presence: The Journal of Catholic Poetry.
Video by Button Poetry.
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Thank you, Matthew. ☮️