Sign of the Rose

Sit in the parking lot.
Mutter Hail Mary under your breath
and try to imagine her as the cars rumble past.
They line up behind the stoplight.
A real life human behind every wheel;
you can’t see them, but they’re with you.
You’re never alone.

It’s Friday tomorrow.
Friday the furthest from grace —
or the nearest?

Car-bubbles blown
of spirit’s love affair with matter.
They move like beetles,
but there are real life people in them.
Hearts beating, hands trembling,
a pool of once-hopeful dreams…

A woman in red crosses the street.
She is beautiful.
You’ll never touch…
she’ll never look…
never think…
never kiss…
You’ll never pick or possess her.
But as she disappears into the haze,
it was a blessing to have witnessed beauty.

They move like beetles.
Why was this permitted?
A man shouts, “Damn!”
You can’t see where from.
It’s Friday. Thy will be done.

There’s a poster later, in the Mexican restaurant:
a masked girl in black
and the words Dia de los Muertos.
In the background a mandala
in the rose’s pink and scarlet.

Pray for us sinners…

I tremble when I see a rose.
They move like beetles.
You can’t see them, but they’re with you.
It was a blessing.
It’s Friday. Thy will be done.

… now, and at the hour of our death.