Chapel

the small chapel
is so still and empty.
I can’t see the white, white clouds
or the high blue sky.
it is a strange place to worship.

the loud louts from the Bowery
are not here. that is good.
the thin hearts of the family
picnic aunts are beating
or not somewhere else.

on the cloth altar
an open Bible
holds out its large insistent hand
to the living who are dying.

where are Mary Margaret and Michael?
have they gone to the park swings
again without me?
I miss them when they are gone.

when I am gone
don’t scatter my ashes.
in the morning
hold them in your hands,
put them on your bread.
take me with you.