SAINTS

Though they live a few blocks apart
Caravaggio's St. Jerome rarely sees
El Greco's. A few times a year
They lunch at the Harvard Club.
Caravaggio's saints tend to be fit,
Even buff. His powerful old Jerome
Could probably juggle engine blocks
While El Greco's looks as if a breeze
Could carry him aloft if sadness
Didn't ballast him. Caravaggio's
Is a man of means. El Greco's lives rough
And sleeps in a doorway on Seventh Avenue
Years go by in which he never speaks.

RUNNING INTO ST. JEROME

More often than not when I’m on 7^th 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 23^rd, 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 7^th Avenue;

It is cold north of 40^th Street; seek us below.”