St. Anthony

A statue with a neck
of broken shards.
Hands, still clasped
in effortless prayer.
Robe, still billowing
in the same eternal pattern.

Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony,
Where is your head?
Finder of lost things,
But you’ve lost your head.
Now you can’t help me find myself,
And you help yourself instead.

It was probably a bunch of kids,
late at night, looking for adventure.
A white concrete beacon,
destroyed by the late-night antics
of a bunch of kids.

The priest saw it this morning,
as he watered the garden.
An old man and a young girl driving by
shared a good laugh.
A child looked just looked up and said:

“Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, where is your head?”