Many Livingston
Sundays ago
In rain or shine
Through frost and fog
She dedicated a block walk
To Saint Judes
Concrete universal quarry
Grandma Delores
Bless her soul
Sought rest there
Her fragile frame resting
On pine pew
In tranquil adoration
Gave glorification
Praying in whispers
The Rosary slipping between
Wrinkled arthritic fingers
In a solitary corner
In back in black
A bench to herself
Where the sun spears
Through Saints etched
On stained glass windows
Until Father Dominic Franci
Swaggered in and rang the bell
For the first mass
When the homely lonely
Long suffering unworthy
Made to feel in society
Few
Humanity prayed
Acting on concerted Roman
Not Indian rituals
Rise
Sit
Stand
Kneel
Pass the basket
Look real
Humble-like
Look almost peonized
As an organ eerie
As all hell
Moans and groans
As a line evolutionized
Shuffling to the rail at the altar
One by one by one
Stick out their tongues
Like frogs take in
White sanctified round
Manufactured holy wafers
And like a chia-pet
Jesu Christo
Him-suppose-to-come-alive
Grow inside
Alive vivo only
To dissolve away
Dissipate before Monday
Until the next Sunday
When petitions of traditions
Assault whispers at man hung high on cross nailed In frozen in time
Anguished expression
Of religions cruelty to man
Him no whispered back
Grandma Delores gave no notion
No inclination
She just gave and gave
Petitions dollars nickels dimes
So much time so many whispers
And in return she received no definitions
On lifelong acts of contrition
No answer to why life
Always was a day away of destitution
She just had a block to walk
To dedicate
And tiny candles in tiny blue colored glass
To pay for to light the dimness in her soul
Whispers
Until she had no more.