On my knees in the basement of a Franciscan church
with the unhoused huddled among their bags
and other worn-out folks praying for a spiritual reprieve.
Thank God they have air conditioning.
Images of martyrs and their suffering are all around.
The hoods of those who pray here
are the capuchins of friars
or hoodies from the secondhand store.
Our Lady of the Tender touch icon blesses
to the left of the golden sun monstrance holding him
who is not the Risen Christ, Lord of History.
No, this is Jesus, Mary’s Boy.
That spiky gold halo around the host
in the monstrance is my steering wheel
to find an exit ramp.
A place where when your brakes give out
at 70 miles per hour in a steep slide
you can steer into a pile of sand and walk away.
I am grateful to all my subscribers and pray for you before I send out a poem.
In times of trouble may you all find.your own exit ramp to the safe shadow of a divine outstretched hand.
If you like the poem let me know with a heart and consider sharing Holy Poetry with a friend.
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