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.