Ever since Mary found Jesus,
the Church became her life.

Bruno would have none of it.
His only concession:
No work on Sundays.

Awakened by the trumpet fanfare
of “Sunday Morning,”
he is filled with dread.

His tired bones lumber around the house,
a polar bear in a zoo.

A simple man, who knew what to do
with a fistful of soil;
he grew arugula in December.

He’s a Florentine, scarred by adversity,
who never listened to the rhythm
of moon and stars or surging tides.

No muse, no books, dead eyes.
He’s never been wide-eyed,
or learned to cry.

A man of few words,
he never uses a napkin;
the back of his hand will do.

He’s a donkey, who hee-haws up hills
with a load of bricks on his back;
he moans in his sleep.

His wife whispers in his ear:
“You are my granite rock,
God-less as you are, I love you still.