Whether he will or no, miracles happen
In the vicinity of saints and so with Jerome.
The patches on his clothes wait until he sleeps
And sew themselves more firmly in place.
Dogs, meaning to attack him, find themselves
Apologizing in passable Latin and slinking off
Bewildered. (Long afterwards they’ll wake
Growling “Cave! Canis malum!”) Some nights
A cop who died in 1947 swings down the Avenue
Leaving a dime and half a cheese sandwich
Beside each homeless sleeper.