By Patrick T. Reardon


On Bedloe’s Island, ducking 

the tour, I stowed away

and, at night, when all 

bodies had emptied out

of the body, found the

command deck where,

with a touch of a button,

I opened Lady Liberty’s

heavy copper eyes and I

could see where I was

going when, moments 

later, I pushed ignition

for lift-off from the launch 

pad, and we — statue

body and I, Lady and

I — were on our way to 

space orbit where I

looked down on grim

Covid globe, social

distanced as I’d been

for months in that two-flat

on Paulina Street, this

copper-steel-iron angel

just another tin can, like

my ‘06 Scion, no magic

dust to sprinkle over the

good earth to disappear 

the contagion and hug each 

Jane and Joe with chaste

safety, no glad tidings to

bring of a savior born, no

kings with gifts for a

Gethsemane planet 

yearning to breathe free. 


Patrick T. Reardon



This poem originally appeared at The Write Launch on 2.1.21.

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

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