For Papa

The way to the Cathedral
is full of people that pass
their thoughts ahead; minds full
unaware of the drizzle that falls
making their coats glisten on the way to mass

the dull sound of my feet
beating the ground is covered
by the cars that pass
my mind behind, vacant
rain speckles my spectacles
as I enter the nave's northern door

Inside the grey stone walls
I light a small blue candle grasping
for a half remembered mumbled
prayer to your memory
as the stones encircle me
collecting my words in their crevices
mortar for God's house

But somewhere in the holy air
that fills this empty, austere place
on a grey stone arch my God sits
unmoved by the moving of my lips
unable as a cause to comprehend consequence

I watch the little flam dance
marking the day like an inverted birthday cake
it occurs to me
You would rather I eat a Boston cream doughnut
with a cup of tea (2 sugars, milk please)
then wait for this stale piece of bread
and light a 75 cent candle you'll never see
because you're four years dead

Ashes to ashes, the time passes
an old Irish man with starched white collar
puts his wrinkled tissue paper hands in black
and marks me with his faith

oily and pungent
cool on my skin

his hands swim in my vision
reverently, I bow my head
the salty holy water leaving my eyes
rains splashes baptizes the floor

four years gone
and if I close my eyes
and listen

I can still hear you breathe