Thomas Merton in Manhattan

The city is a mistake, it is a human mistake, he thinks.
God never intended us to be living on top of each other,
nor on concrete streets.

He is convinced it is impossible to pray among police sirens and car horns blaring non-stop. He can't hear
God's voice in a world in which the wind can't shake
the leaves of country trees.

Nor does he recognize the moons blood shot eye
rising between the Twin Towers. Thomas believes it's
the result of keeping up with a city which refuses to
slumber.

What would Jesus preach?
What words would he choose?
What images would he seek while
standing on Ave. A and Houston street?

His white garment, filthy at the hem of his feet,
hangs like drapes on his thin body. The dust and
dirt slowly creeping up and stopping at the waistline
is what makes him human.

"Consider the rats of the streets.
They neither worry about traps or poisons
as they dart from plastic garbage bags,"
he'd say.

"Consider the pigeons of the air,
they neither toil or spin, as they gather onto window
sills. Yet, your heavenly grandfather feeds them from
park benches. How much more fortunate are they
then you who sleep on card board boxes?"

Then, slowly lowering his head and fixing his gaze on
Thomas, he asks in a tender voice, "Where are all the
tax collectors?"

"This is the 1990's." Thomas replies, stretching out his
legs,
while shifting his weight from hip to the palm of his hands,
"You would have to write to the government to get permission
to obtain that kind of apostle."

"I never write down my words..." Jesus replies,
as the tide of cars rush behind him drowning
out his voice... "I leave that up to chance."

Thomas assures him of the challenge he could
always undertake at the Lincoln or Holland Tunnel
converting a toll booth collector.

"No...it's nearly evening and the day is far spent,
better for us to rest." He says while examining
the sky line and adjusting a woolly blanket over
his shoulders.

"That's what I have always liked about you Jesus,"
Thomas says, huddling up against him for warmth and closing
his tired eyes, hoping to save enough faith for tomorrow,
"you are always reasonable."

^

Biography

My name is Richard Crawley and I am 33 years old. I live in Long Island, NY and work for a hospital helping cancer patients. I have studied poetry at Duchess Community college in Poughkeepsie, NY. I continued to study and write at Seton Hall university in Orange, NJ. It was here I attained my bachelors degree in Biblical studies. My parents are both from Dublin and I am the youngest of four boys. I started writing at an early age to help make sense of the world around me. My poem entitled, "Thomas Merton in Manhattan" is one of those attempt to understand a city which confused me. My work seems to make true the words of Fredrick Nitchie who said, "Out of chaos come order." When I am confused, I write a poem and everything takes order for me.