Hawk Shadow
We are an odd couple,
the friar and I, we
talk akimbo in the stairwell,
a few blocks from where
the dumber than donkeys will
convene their convention,
near the upwelling of Penn
Station, in our scarred
city, target #1.
The friar's uneasy. Earlier
there was fire, smoke, transformer
fire. He's reminded of the night,
blackout, when the homeless,
scared, slept in pews as the friars
tried to offer comfort.
He speaks so frankly of his doomsday fears
(they're in the air) that I briefly
think the umbrella of his faith has lost its ribs.
Page(s) 21
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