MIDTOWN REVIVAL AND THE FINGER OF FATE Poem by John Horvath Jr


MIDTOWN REVIVAL AND THE FINGER OF FATE

Wednesday, midweek, after Rose Monday

and Shrove Tuesday pass without notice,

a quiet man appears in Chicago (chosen

because Irish-Catholic); a Wonder Worker

returns but the villagers suffer Lent,

its long fast from belief. He shows

them visions of paradise.

Police atop geldings disperse the crowd

that gathers. Move along. Nothing

to see here. Move along. Morning”s

business traffic reaches high pitch,

drowns out comforting words. Grey suits

passing drop coins at his feet. Shoppers

stare into store windows, try to recall

that face. Was it “As the World Turns?”

A bit part. No! “All Our Children”!

Looks like it”s going to be a scorcher,

reports a passing taxi, its radio loud

cluttering thin air over raging curses

of the gutter class some of whom

urinate against the daylight wall

behind the Wonder Worker, baptized

in their river of night before cheap

drinks. Traffic lights rotate the three

basic laws. Go pause Stop. Beginning

middle and End. This is the One Way.

Two boys in colors stab, rob, then rape

the Wonder Worker. He is left to die

at the Water Tower. A finger points

toward heaven. A street vendor finds

his spot defiled. He shutters: What?

Christ Jesus, not again.

***


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