and now I have about thirty-five minutes to spare.
Somehow I get the feeling that it might be nice
to pass the time in an old Catholic church that they've got there.
I ascend a few steps and stroll through doors propped open,
passing by the holy water because I don't know what to do
with holy water. I don't think I should touch it. I'm hoping
that these Catholics won't be bothered by a tourist passing through.
Seated now, I look at statues, works of wood and stone, architecture.
If the clergy inquires, I'm merely here to see the beautiful pictures,
not to worship, not to pray, or to hear a priestly lecture.
Everything's in Spanish, anyway. How could I read their scriptures?
Oy vey. How do I tell my rabbi that, though Judaism is quite lovely,
I enjoy this church, and I like the Pope, and I no longer believe it's beneath
the customs of our people to reverently sit in such a place, occasionally,
next to Mexican men with bowed heads, wrinkled skin, and missing teeth?
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