None shall be missing
By Patrick T. Reardon
Lucy is a depth of purple
in shrouded statue time.
Stations of the Cross.
Stations of the railroad.
Keep word. Keep heart.
Evil deeds and hopeless cases.
Mislead and scatter, woe.
Lucy sweeps the sanctuary,
lifting dust unseen from the pews,
a holy card of dutifulness.
Gather the remnant.
None shall be missing.
Once tall, now bent like a servant,
Father Luke canes up the aisle,
looking at the world
through the tops of his eyes,
gentle, kind in his way, ambitionless,
who held spaces, played roles,
wore uniforms. Someone had to.
The sacerdotes are organized like teamsters.
Denmark Jones knows
none of these people,
walking on his knees
to the shrine candles flickering
like a crowd of heartbeats.
The journal quietly kept of a soul.
Raise a righteous shout.
The pews are led back to their meadow.
The pews increase and multiply.
Their cup overflows.
This is the name they give him.
Patrick T. Reardon
7.20.25
This poem originally appeared in The Seventh Quarry, issue 42, Summer/Autumn 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/.