Saturday, August 26, 2006

Apostle

The park bench was hard and cold
as she sat there watching the man
on his soap box
as he captured stray listeners with words disjointed
and arms that flailed as he spoke of
end of times.

It was hard to see, this Apostle,
knowing where he came from
and how she’d tended him from birth
until the walls came tumbling down around him.

So she sat there, listening to the words
as they came out of his frothing mouth
and looked at the stains on his clothing,
wondering whatever happened to her baby boy.

He turned to her and extended his hands
palms up...
“Did you wash them for dinner?”
...and she saw that they were bleeding
as he spoke of things so blatantly lost on her

...the end is near...

She heard the words
gathered her coat
rising from the park bench
on knees that once bent easily in prayer.

Under her breath, she said
“It’s already here.”

3 comments:

dominic said...

It's tough work being an Apostle.

Roberta said...

...And an Apostles Mom.

anna said...

this is such an excellent poem Roberta. Rings so true.