I found a man reciting ohms
in a church in greenwich village.
Angels sang from the PA
and hung from the barrel vault ceiling
with incorrect proportions
drawn by an unsteady hand;
the virgin and her son kept him company
from hard plastic perches
draped over with purple polyester cloth.
I said no prayer, but gave my alms—
in the shape of change from that morning’s coffee—
and lit a candle by pressing a button
to incite light from an LED
on my want back into the wind and the rain.