Saint Augustine

The gutter’s almost black with rust now
(New England winters never let up),
dripping snowmelt onto the pavement
this early and welcome warm day. I have not been able
to forget the spring of last year—
twelve months of walking on clay feet,
struggling to remember voices and faces.

Still waiting for Saint Augustine’s reward,
for the one who died without a word
to call or just come on over, cigarettes in pocket,
letting us in on secrets that none have ever known.
What we have left is the smell
of laundry, incense on special occasions,
the cold-to-hot flow of water over
winter-dried hands — not enough.

A profligate life gave the holy man
enough material to fill books
with gratitude for a life saved.
I would settle for conversion
through evidence
that God is
not finished