At the bridge under the Garden
of Poets, I sit and chew
on the world as it is
I see the people go
young, tired, or recklessly
defying the patron saint
that dangles from the interior mirror
Late in the evening they walk on the side
with packs or down timber
on their heads, crosses around their neck
on the shoulders of their souls
and as hangers in the wardrobe

The Symbol is everywhere
On the square it has holes
of the nails, living water
spouts from the copper
The redemption will come later
people are in a miserable state
I can see it on the faces
of Jesus in the stores
Sadly he looks at me
For sale for little money