Poem: "St. Roch"

St. Roch

Your ancestors are buried here,
she said,
pointing to the fuzzy monitor;
my roots displayed
as if someone had known all along
that francis killman is my Great Grandfather,
a tattoo of a woman sewn on his thigh
that I have never seen before,
never knew him before,
gets kinda excited
decomposed into a puddle
at St. Roch
his ashes are —
I presume, , ,
but I can never find him,
passing the chapel,
Cubicle “A-2-Z” is absent,
a square window penciled in on the side,
and peering in like Scrooge on Christmas day —
I see there are crutches, braces, wooden canes,
old socks
s t r e w n
on rocks carved, “Thank you to a saint”
and we are changed
the peeled off pavement
of Holy Trinity walk
and Saint Irenaeus lane
suffer … drop a penny, sink a ship, sailor blue leaning against the wall, washed out from the lake pontchartrain after the storm
Three Boys at the Pantheon

No comments:

Post a Comment

Be courteous. Speak your mind. Don’t be rude. Share.