A woman is sweeping

are we on time

she’s deaf or

vow of silence?

we sweep our puffy coats in a pew, breathe into our scarves and wait

In here I feel like the shallow shiny pages of a magazine

While I sit freezing in the nave

Surprised by my appetite for watching monks chant

so quietly

that the dust has to deliver it to god

seven times a day they arrange themselves

kneel sit stand and bend over

to address the dust

ouch, I imagine

one of them doesn’t kneel

Dad says, knees

people meditate everywhere

I've tried the city avenues

This is a country path to pain

there will always be more and less expensive ways to find god

what kind of penance is the creation of freaky situations

I picture them drinking stone soup

The buildings look like a diorama come to life

too matchy to be real

peanut butter colored bricks look like rows of little crackers

Dad says, the roof is only half as high as it will be

but it's already on

                                       

I start imagining one of their thin brown robes wrapped around my glossy pages

Or how could I make a decorated version for myself

We go giftshopping to help them out

Mom and I buy saintly icons

to weigh me down

make me grave like a monk’s knee pain I pray

and infinitely down to earth

I wonder about the style of brace beneath his robe

The brown cloak checks the mail with his hood up

I’m lapping up the image in my city way

                                                     

denial is a practice we can all pretend

is something like a cleanse         

but what about checking the mail in thin brown robe in the snow