East

A man calls for prayers outside the Islamic Center and I follow
His voice toward Mecca and into the frigid evening-
East
Toward the river and my run-down apartment,
East
Toward a lonely ocean,
East
From where my family came,
East
Toward Jerusalem and the stories I hear at Mass.


I haven't set foot in a church since March, it snowed then too.
It is always well into the afternoon when I wake on Sundays
And I drink tea under the sliver of western light
That, on occasion, enters my living room
While the last services close at Immaculate Conception.