Saints Reflect On Katrina as Gustav Approaches

— headline on a news story, August 29, 2008

Matthew, who covers accountants,
is sharpening pencils, placing each one
into a lead lined box
so they won’t float away this time.

Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, the messengers,
are rehearsing. Brass is their specialty
and they’re dropping a little swing into their fanfares
because — well, just because.

Anthony of Padua lays out the magnifying glasses,
the dowsing rods, the long poles for probing
deep water, the black bags for the recoveries.
He is the finder.  He will be ready.

Everyone’s busy — Genevieve, disasters; Jude, desperate causes;
Martin de Porres, race relations; Joseph, of course,
overseeing both death and social justice, is working out,
getting in shape, doubling up on his reps.

Me?  I’m Anthony the Abbot.  This is Elizabeth Seton,
and to her right is Jerome Emiliani — in charge of
gravediggers, lost parents, and orphans, respectively.
We’re on standby, coming to you live

from a place somewhere nearby, somewhere hot and sticky
and not exactly forgotten, somewhere not exactly anyone’s idea
of Heaven anymore.  Bernadine, who has responsibility
for public relations, tells us not to mention the name

just in case anyone should draw conclusions about us
and our readiness last time.  I’ll say this much: sometimes,
we do our best and the worst still happens.  When it does,
it’s usually because we counted on help from those

with boots on the ground, no matter how soggy it gets
they’ve still gotta do their part if we’re to be of any service
at all.  That didn’t happen.  We’ll see what goes down this time,
I guess.  Foresight doesn’t fall into our jurisdiction.

Oh, in case you were curious — yes, there are two among us
who bear those names.  They’re old, and we don’t trust them
with anything of consequence anymore; don’t confuse them
with their namesakes, though.  We cause nothing to happen:

we’re all about the aftermath.