Always on Tuesday, Saint Anthony’s day,
I attend Mass at Saint Anthony’s church,
the littlest and farthermost of my town.
Indeed, it is more like a chapel.
Few people go there, they pray mainly
at Saint Vincent’s, in Central Square,
that looks as refulgent as a Cathedral.
They are unaware that the church I go to
was built on the ground of old, or better,
the oldest of our cemeteries.
I know that great-grandparents’ bones
are in the foundation of Saint Anthony’s.
And I firmly believe that
my ancestors dispense their blessings,
along with those of our Lord
and of the Saint of every Tuesday evening.
Published in “Whispers”, February 02, 2016.