by Laura Del Col Brown
photo by Paola Nicollelo
A weekly paper hung on, like a veil For a bride flanked by her brats. The local council Had shocked a father with a parking fine, All for a second kiss farewell. The school Had nearly got a Good. The classifieds Ran adverts for themselves, till, bottom right, Someone’d paid up: Thank you, St. Expedite.
I Googled him. It turned out he was real, And often called upon. You light a candle And offer pound cake (some say Sara Lee, While others call that ahistorical). The joke goes that his name’s a misread plea To distant postal gods; but that’s the point. Some bones, some hope: that’s all that makes a saint.
Some hope — but hope requires a passageway, A moment unobserved. Where will we be When answers come at once or not at all, And every journey’s tracked? And yet, we’ll pray, At altars found online, that miracles Can squeeze into as small a gap as worry. Expand the time, St Expedite, but hurry.
Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on January 11, 2020.