The First Friday bell shatters the morning
and shuffling feet respond to the call

Your dim grey shape joins the procession
again pulling a dozen wagons which

are the churches you used to hurry to
filled with plaster saints and incantations;

you treasured them and kept bright shiny
beads while at death's door you lay pain wracked

and tortured, eaten away by some greedy
demon, your flesh falling off and melting

into air; and I could only watch you
mumble, eating your pain to spare me

no church no god seemed to help you and I
watched you with dread and admiration and

love and hate. Yes, hate! I hated your
suffering like Job or some dumb animal

there with nerves aquiver and sunken eyes
and painful submission to your loving

Maker. How I wished to relieve you but
you were content to bite your teeth and hold

back the bitter tears while I looked helplessly
and admired you, pitied you, and loved you

and as the First Friday bell rings I hear
your footsteps join the band of faithful and

your lips fluttering as you pass the beads
and drag your wagon-churches and I weep