I took the bus from town. Traveled all day
in the heat without so much as an ice chip
for comfort. Then another two hours

to climb the hill. This is how you test devotion.
The nice black dress I put on for you
might as well be made of dust. And the other

desperate souls? Morons. Pushing and shoving
like cattle, as if this was some kind of cheap
fair or carnival. And you? You only listened

to the cripple—dragged up here by a friend,
wobbly on his knees, crying at the top of his lungs
(Who does he think he’s fooling?), intruding

on the rest of us praying quietly: Look at me,
look at me, me, me, me, as if shouting
your pain means you suffer more. Father

in heaven, save me. Make me whole. Cure
my afflictions.