I see myself in the nun walking by
as I read on a bench in the sunshine.
She of the short grey hair,
a man’s shirt, cleanly laundered,
wash and wear, drapes over her
navy cotton slacks.  She proceeds
with purpose, one hand wrapped
behind her back.  She looks down
as she walks, serious, contemplative.

I’ve always said I could pick a nun
our of a lineup.
Sturdy, no-nonsense–
plain, unadorned faces.
They would be nurses.  You could
trust them with your life.
You can be sure they have books
checked out of the library
and that they’ll return them.