A Catholic Worker Family



A Catholic Worker Family

The objects of their adoration

were later traced to Central Station,

laying on a closet floor

with Tamany Hall’s old humidor.


There was no sacred image there,

No Dorothy Day

No sign of prayer

No feet to wash except their own

No poor to serve, no map of home.




Decades later, faintly heard:

distant Latin, sacred word,

serving drunks on bended knee:

prophets of the Bowery.


But nothing’s left of battle cries

turned by cowards  into lies.


Claire O’Brien, 2014


Note: this poem is about one family – not about the Catholic Worker Movement itself, to which I send my love.




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