PASTORAL INTERN

I didn't know much about Catholics,
what they felt, believed, and so on.
So when, on a visit to the hospital,
the woman in the other bed called
me "Father," I was stunned.
But I'm not . . . I stammered. She waved
her hand. I know, she said, but I need
to talk. She did. Told me about her
family. Told me more about her cancer
than I cared to know. Told me when
she'd made her last confession.
Told me she prayed her son would
be a priest, but he'd become
a cop instead. Her eyes brimmed.
And when the pain gets so bad,
she said and paused, and
I think I cannot bear it,
I remember Christ and his suffering
on the cross and that he bore
it all for me. For me.
She closed her eyes and wept.
I reached to touch her hand,
the one that wasn't tube-attached.
She smiled and nodded.
I left the room and wondered
what it meant to be a priest.

LESSON PLAN

"There lives more faith in honest doubt,
believe me, than in half the creeds."
         -- Alfred Lord Tennyson

If by faith you mean certainty --
bedrock, unassailable, absolute,
don't-confuse-me-with-the-facts
conviction of certitude -- then
I suggest you enroll in a class
other than this one.

COMPARISON

According to the cover blurb, he has
written 19 books of poems, and as many

of prose, including fiction, criticism,
and a memoir. He was born, so it said,

in Aruba of a Russian father and Irish
mother. He has, in addition, climbed

Mt. Everest, done research on the Amazon,
and enjoys fly fishing in Montana.

I, on the other hand, grew enough
tomatoes this summer to freeze

5 quarts of spaghetti sauce,
which I made myself.

There was some left over.

THE PIANO

   For Ann
   In Memoriam

They are taking away the piano.
It was hers, not mine.
She made it sing.
I cannot.

Mozart, Beethoven, of course.
We went to see "The Sting."
And she said I want to play Scott Joplin.
And did.

It has stood here in the living room,
mute as a boulder and as heavy.
Could it have spoken
it would have begged me to send it
somewhere, anywhere, so it could
sing again, which is why today
they are taking away the piano.

SPIDER SPIN

My neighbor comes across the street,
gives his usual smile and waves.
I stop, cut the mower's roar.
We chat, ordinary stuff.
In minutes, five, no more, he turns
to go. I see it then . . . a single
silken thread sticking to my sleeve.
I trace it to the other end,
find it fastened to our tree,
white oak, that stands four feet
away. In such short tick of time,
a line was cast, a distance bridged between,
vast by any standard,
an engineering feat that dwarfs,
by contrast, any man-made span.

Just a spider's spin, I think
and brush it off my shirt
with mild annoyance, missing
once again a chance to cheer.