Easter Monday, Bright Monday

Outside my window somebody’s tapping

against the steel frame

of the warehouse next door

where they restore old American cars

and it sounds like a dirge

in four-four time, or the pealing

of an iron bell.

I’m grateful to be alive today

driving to town over the tracks,

past the refinery with its brackish air

and the boatyard’s resinous smell.

 

I’d like to bring some roses and jasmine

to the place where they’ll bury Pope Francis

where he’ll drift out from shore

and not look back,

the jury of cardinals like orphans

locked up together behind him,

not for the first time or the last.

I’d carry a heart made of dusty glass beads

and wear a dress shirt with purple sleeves

and keep on looking forward like him

letting the past be the past.

Joseph Millar
Monday, April 21, 2025