Vogue Habit

without a word she sweeps
with a beanie worn low over her eyebrows it seems
she’s taken a vow of silence

my puffy coat makes the pew almost comfortable
and I catch my breath when
the monks walk out

it’s of another world
to see anyone in uniform
to hear anyone chanting

I can barely hear but god must be eating this up

heat would rise with the sunny dust
but there is none
so the monks and I keep our hands
in front pockets when we can

looking at my hands together for “prayer”
I feel as shallow as the pages of a magazine
or like I’m trying on a hat

they do it seven times a day
in this part called the nave
bending over, half-lift at the chorus
maybe a wink or two at hell

one of them doesn’t kneel, Dad assumes knees and
I picture him coughing to cover the sound of the creak
of his brace beneath his robe

I start imagining how I would look
with a brown robe wrapped around my shiny pages
as I watch them speedwalk spreading
their habits around like jellyfish
wearing black kitchen supply sneakers

we buy icons
solemn weight for my style
and soap for Mom’s hands, I pray

make me grave like a monk’s knee
and infinitely down to earth
take away my city vision
the everlasting movie
of everything I see
of these monks specifically,
of a brown robe checking the mail
with its hood up in the snow
I want to take it home

can you bless something small and robed
like Creeley
even when you
don’t have your phone?