AuntShecky
12-06-2007, 11:25 AM
On December 18, 2006, the Boston Globe published a touching photo whose caption described a Franciscan brother giving “warm socks and a prayer” to a person “during a walk along the fringes of Chinatown on a chilly morning.” Last year, the poignant picture prompted me to write a piece, which upon recent review seemed hackneyed and spiritually complacent. The expression of humility from both the giver and recipient called for another attempt; thus:
Warm Socks and a Prayer, Take Two
Always and Everywhere gray
flecked with unwanted flakes
the slate sky above -- and below --
the pavement under our freezing feet.
Rich guy stoops down, says “Here ya go,
buddy. Happy holidays!” and shakes
change loosely; it lands near us on the street.
Spreading joy around like a song
makes him feel good, aside from the bundle he makes.
We've been on the bricks, been here long
enough to know guilt when we see it, shame
and appeasing sacrifice to an ancient fear
to keep the evil spirits away.
That would be us. We forgot our names,
but we've got Titles!
“The” Homeless
“The” Poor
always with you, always here–
Remember?–memory, like our clothing, thin,
while the worldly son resumes his role
far from this urban gloom
to his place, cavernous as an inn:
lights strung up -– hung – - on the door,
seasonal stuff on the lawn and in each room
props like penguins from a different pole
having little to do with
the Birth
the Birth of – -
Christ, my feet are cold!
A gift, its presence, the Present-
what could we do with myrrh or gold?
Consider the context, the humble source:
you don't serve caviar to a peasant,
the soup line only offering one course.
Bless us O Lord
for these Thy soup and rolls
Bless us Father
for we have not.
Bless you, Brother
for the prayer that might make
it to Heaven
when they put wings on rocks
but they really hit the spot,
these warm socks
you gave us for the sake
of our mortal soles.
All Rights Reserved.
Warm Socks and a Prayer, Take Two
Always and Everywhere gray
flecked with unwanted flakes
the slate sky above -- and below --
the pavement under our freezing feet.
Rich guy stoops down, says “Here ya go,
buddy. Happy holidays!” and shakes
change loosely; it lands near us on the street.
Spreading joy around like a song
makes him feel good, aside from the bundle he makes.
We've been on the bricks, been here long
enough to know guilt when we see it, shame
and appeasing sacrifice to an ancient fear
to keep the evil spirits away.
That would be us. We forgot our names,
but we've got Titles!
“The” Homeless
“The” Poor
always with you, always here–
Remember?–memory, like our clothing, thin,
while the worldly son resumes his role
far from this urban gloom
to his place, cavernous as an inn:
lights strung up -– hung – - on the door,
seasonal stuff on the lawn and in each room
props like penguins from a different pole
having little to do with
the Birth
the Birth of – -
Christ, my feet are cold!
A gift, its presence, the Present-
what could we do with myrrh or gold?
Consider the context, the humble source:
you don't serve caviar to a peasant,
the soup line only offering one course.
Bless us O Lord
for these Thy soup and rolls
Bless us Father
for we have not.
Bless you, Brother
for the prayer that might make
it to Heaven
when they put wings on rocks
but they really hit the spot,
these warm socks
you gave us for the sake
of our mortal soles.
All Rights Reserved.