Good Friday morning flying in, arriving 10:18.
The phone assumes a woman’s voice: “Next left, St. Catherine.”
St. Catherine runs from east to west– begins at Mary Street,
Then rambles maybe nineteen blocks before it comes to rest.
Past Queen Anne homes and mini-marts and gentry on a stroll;
A breakfast spot, two liquor stores, some people pushing carts.
Our weekend lodge is burnt-clay brick, laid down in '94;
Mounting several stories high and several courses thick.
An august boxer in the yard defends his bounded place;
But, when our host invites us in, the boxer sheds his guard.
We saunter up to Central Park, entree to St. James Court:
The Romanesque and Châteauesque compete 'til day is dark.
St. Louis Bertrand meets St. Cate where Sixth Street makes a cross:
He strikes a graying, gothic stance and calls us to our prayer.
But, we head toward St. Joseph's Home, where old folks take their rest,
And Little Sisters vigil-keep with Mother Church in Rome.
The ancient elders shuffle up on walkers, some on canes,
And prepare to meet their maker and take their holy sup.
On Easter day, the sun is poor; the plumbing’s given out;
We shuttle through the rain to use the privy housed next door.
But, there’s Pascha bread and sauerkraut; a ham that’s brined and smoked;
Kielbasa fashioned link by link, and foreign extra stout.
At dusk, the many guests are brought to play a game of chance:
Grandma rolls the hottest dice, but nephew takes the pot.
On Monday morn, our bags are filled and boarding passes got,
We leave St. Catherine as she was, across Old Louisville.
Recent Comments