Vacant lot Pope
By Patrick T. Reardon
Walk the goofy walk of the
Galilee clown, laughing at
denarii or spilling the coins
in anger amid the pigeons
and lambs, music of the
heavens, lyrics by sacred
hoboes huddled over
dollar coffees on a brown
McDonald’s morning, as
Brother Sir Laborer repairs
the wind-cracked door again
and Sister Pain practices her
hymn harmony, seeking true
joy toward the light that
pulls her like a magnet. Ask
her about her happinesses.
Wash like a mother the feet
of the uncertain guy with the
Egg McMuffin. Tell him it
comes with the fries. Accept
half of his apple pie, hungry
as you are, as, outside, a
kind of raven seems to hover.
Go quietly with the courteous
cops to the sidewalk and then
on your silly way. They want to
serve and protect and get home.
Patrick T. Reardon
4.27.25
This poem originally appeared at Third Coast Review on 4.29.25
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/.