In three hundred years,
when everyone who loved me
is forgotten,
a small man – bent with age
and responsibility – will read
my name out over an empty square.
“A patron saint for our times,”
he will intone, “for those who feel their hearts
twitch in their chests like frayed wire;
for those walking through their bare
apartments looking for their glasses;
for those who rest in the quiet
after hanging up the phone;
for those who sit in the sun
where at least their shadows are with them;
for those who pray out loud since there is no one
who can hear.”
