King Louis
Patrick T. Reardon
In the cathedral window, King
Louis cares for the wounded
soldiers to the shock of his generals.
King Louis, the French saint,
akin to a holy American president,
akin to a blessed Chicago mayor,
a saintly alderman of the West Side Bloc.
Holy holy holy.
The book of numbers, the
spirit among them, all
the people prophets.
Over the pulpit, a huge brown wood
seashell without Venus — the book instead.
Fell into fault-finding.
If your eye sins.
Drive out demons.
Spirit moves like the dewfall.
Holy of holies.
The shirtless screamer on
the plaza outside scares the stolid
tourists, announcing the gospel.
Patrick T. Reardon
1.26.26
This poem originally appeared in Tipton Poetry, Winter, 2025.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.