On a bus in the city
on a slush-spattered morning
St. Agnes rode quiet to her grave.
Her sister was praying
her ear buds were playing
a song that was slow, sad, and brave.
The driver was sleeping
on a cushion of roses
and the wheel was a garland of sand
St. Agnes was pure
as few ever can be
mending wounds with a gold rubber band.
On the streets there were dogs
and they spoke of a healing
that cures every creature entire
St. Agnes is holy
and her sister is humbled
by the cost such devotion requires.
The bus turned to ashes
and the souls of the riders
had to carry all the things they must learn
St. Agnes beheaded
her sister lamented
that glory, to be sweet, must be stern.
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