Nick Bruno


There's a red Testarossa parked in front
of Our Lady of Pompeii. Third graders
preparing to receive God for the first time
figure that maybe this is a sign.

My daughter is in white crinoline,
distressed by her gown -- holds it up
as she sidesteps a classmate. We pick our way
into church -- search for the probable owner.

Eyes adjusted to the lower intensity of light,
we scour the congregation for a sunglass --
wearing Mephistophelean figure lurking
in the back of the church with earplugs
and a Discman -- listening to Judas Priest.

All we see are the alms-collectors who stand
ready to canvass the pews' occupants.
Undeterred we look up at the balcony,
half-expecting the Ferrari's proprietor,
a halter-top diva, to wave at niece or nephew.

The commune with God complete -- we emerge
and the car is gone, replaced by a hearse;
a peacock transposed into a crow. My daughter
blows at her bangs about her brow and says,
"This must be the one He takes to work."

Location: Montreal, Canada
Occupation: Educator
Publications: Adirondack Review, Thunder Sandwich, Verse Libre Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Electric Acorn, Unlikely Stories, Poor Mojo's Almanac, The Breath, Another Toronto Quarterly, Snow Monkey , etc.

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