More often than not when I’m on 7th Avenue
I see St. Jerome. There’s no
mistaking him
He still looks very like the
portrait
El Greco made in 1610 though his
beard
Is a bit shorter and he no longer
wears
The red robes of a cardinal.
When
I first lived in the City
It was Woody Allen I saw. We
weren’t friends
Or even acquaintances but somehow,
every week or two,
He'd be walking ahead of me or
waiting at a light.
The woman I married once sat
behind him at a movie.
Times change. I haven’t seen Woody
Allen in years;
Now I see a dejected saint,
sitting in doorways.
On impulse, I approached him
yesterday – a cold day
And the sky without color as it gets
sometime in winter –
“The Vulgate!” I said, feeling a little
foolish, “What a book!
Even Wikipedia, while denying it
has much textual authority,
Admits it has great literary
value.” He shook his head,
Not meeting my eyes.
A
few blocks away
Around 23rd, his lion
caught up with me. “Forgive him
He rarely speaks. Thank you for
your words. If ever
You have need of a small miracle –
especially one
Involving translations, skulls or
trumpets –
You will generally find us on 7th Avenue;
It is cold north of 40th
Street; seek us below.”
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