You would not, as a rule, find her ilk in these parts;
Indeed, frat boys from the state school from a few blocks off,
Failing to heed the subtle changes inherent in the urban landscape,
Will occasionally stumble into this where-they-don’t-want –to-be
And, paying no heed to decorum or traffic regulations,
Get to some anywhere-the-hell-else in a hurry,
But she walks, oblivious yet impervious to her surroundings,
Around this part of Quail Street pretty much every day,
So much a fixture of the landscape
That she knows most of the folks on the stoops and porches by name,
Those she can’t remember bestowed with pet names
Such as “Bright Eyes” or “Little Foot”
Or some other appellation which does not engender street-respect
(Indeed, once in a while, someone unfamiliar with her repartee
Will get up with the intent to Shut that stupid ***** up,
But they are met with a restraining hand on the shoulder,
Not a confrontational grab, but a pressure which says
We just don’t do that to this lady on this street.)
Those responsible for providing sanctioned aid and comfort
Are of varied opinion as to her being help or hindrance,
Her strengths being more attuned to the mercurial than the measurable,
(Though all involved marvel at her ability
To seemingly waft into the frame when necessary,
Simply materializing to hold a baby or push a car to the curb)
And, to the outright consternation of some of the sisters from St. Rose
Who come to minister this pew-free flock,
She pays fealty to a multitude of gods
Who occupy an ever-changing hierarchy in her pantheon of deities
(But those are the catechism textbook nuns,
Whose professions of faith are rote blunt objects,
Women who confess everything but the sin of pride)
And she brightly spouts notions which centuries ago
Might have earned her a public burning at the stake,
And even now makes some of the sisters a bit uncomfortable,
Nattering on about how all things are of the same matter,
Immutable yet indestructible (though her happy mutterings
Are sometimes interrupted by an uneasy rasping cough,
And no one can say, after all, where she sleeps, how she eats)
More often than not punctuating the sing-song psalms
By kneeling to the pavement and kissing the very dust and detritus
Littering the street, all the while tittering *Holy, holy, holy—see?