ST. ANTHONY OF PADUA

Rubbing your goatee, you take up your post,
peering over the rim of a cloud, your brown robes
worn and wrinkled, your rope belt tangled in wind.
You mutter, “A little to the left, signora. No, imbecile!
The left!” And then, you close your deep brown eyes
and catnap, satisfied that a young lady in Barcelona
has located her cigarette lighter in the rear compartment
of her leather handbag. She lights up with a click,
draws in sweet nicotine, and exhales a prayer.

So it goes this week. A rescue team finds a skier
in an avalanche, a taxi driver his keys lost
between seat and gearshift, a nun her medals
down a convent sink in Dublin.

You get tired, I know. Forgetfulness, fatigue,
the daily rush, and the growing incidence of dementia
wrap that spinning planet below in a fog
of frowns, curses, and sighs. Favorite item today:
umbrellas – it seems to be raining everywhere,
from Hong Kong to Beirut. Yesterday: sunglasses,
especially in Australia.

You try to tell them – no need to smoke, drive,
stay dry, or even see. Better to collect oneself
than all the objects in the world. You don’t need
that earring dropped on the floor of a bus
in Gujarat. But they insist, so you lean over
your cumulus edge daily, wondering if gravity itself
will ever lose its grip on the little blue-and-green ball
hurtling through space.

How do you tell them, it’s the letting go,
not the gathering. But never a moment’s ease --
a soldier’s last letter to his mother in Iowa,
where it has fallen behind the blue plaid sofa
from her exhausted hand.

An old gentleman from Naples lights a candle
at the foot of your dusty statue in a Brooklyn church.
He is your favorite loser, for he has forgotten
what he is looking for, but still drops in to visit,
gazing from your prophetic plaster eyes to the taper
that simply drips into its red-bubbled cup,
wanting nothing but air, and lacking that,
will snuff itself out in a single whisper,
leaving only the tufted smoke of invisible joy.