I think I'll wander down to New Orleans
and sit in the Saint Louis Basilica
to pray. All the mad prophets say
to know god, you must know him
by his silence.
But that is for another day.
Today, it is my only brother's birthday.
And I must remember to call him –
or at the very least, to write him a note.
I must remember to make the words
something meaningful, the way
brother's words are supposed to be.
I must remember, it might be a model
for future notes when there is no time
but all the good intention in the world.
When I go to the cathedral, I will sit
at the end of a pew, near the middle
on the left hand side, and I will bow
my head and close my eyes the way
they taught us in Sunday School
(Protestants don't genuflect; but maybe
I will ignore the tourists
and the picture snapping,
and the casual whispers.
With any luck, I will fade into the pew
rubbed in like the dirt the bible says
I am made of. And when I am gone
there will be no more wondering
and no more questions
about the existence of god
and no more tourists.
All that will remain is a dirt spot
and an anonymous poem.