Читать книгу Psalms of the Dining Room - Lauren Schmidt - Страница 7

After William Stafford

When graffiti becomes gospel, ask me

if I’ve ever believed in anything.

When telephone poles carry saviors,

when they conduct the Word, ask me

if I’ve posted my inky prayers on them. Ask me

if any tabs with my number are missing,

or if I’ve gotten any calls.

When psalms lift from sewers, ask me

if I’ve let mine go up in a rising wind,

if I can hear them in the stillness of coming and going

and going again.

Some time, when traffic raises the dead, ask me

if I believe in Heaven, and I’ll show you the world

underneath my shoe where we must cover our mouths

from the manic stench of a man who lives there.

His hair clumps into horns at his forehead,

and the wolves of his eyes click corner to corner.

Some time, when pedestrians are the faithful, ask me

to hold out my hand for peace. Ask me if anyone

reaches to touch me. Some time, when transients

are the prophets, ask me if I ever read their signs.

When crosswalks are the stations, ask me

to lift my back into the oaken wind, ask me

to follow the bridge of skeletons to the safer side.

And when the stoplight changes green to red, ask me

if I can begin again, if I know to pause for a miracle, ask me,

as I’m almost run over, to follow the blinking light

of a man who seems to know the way. Ask me

if my feet need a bath when I get there.

What this city says, that is what I will say.