At the bridge under the Garden
of Poets, I sit and chew
on the world as it is

I see the people go, young, tired
or recklessly on their way
defying the patron saint

that dangles from the interior mirror
or walking late on the side, packs
or down timber on their head

and the symbol around their neck
on the shoulders of their souls
and as hangers in the wardrobe

The cross is everywhere

On the square it has holes
of the nails, living water
spouts from the copper

The redemption will come later
people are in a miserable state
I can see it on the faces

of Jesus in the stores
sadly he looks at me
for sale for little money