I Am Not A Good Catholic Poem by Bernard Henrie

I only prayed once, to come home from Vietnam
on time, no lost orders. My prayer was granted.

But I am not a good Catholic.

I did not pray for the breadless, the poor,
the faces without work, the idle and hopeless
lulling on street corners. I talk, make loans.
We all know the loan will never be repaid.

I made Peggy use her silver tongue like a dart
in the long night, I made her sit half-dressed
trembling with unconsummated desire,
first flames of a wedding night at her feet.

I make copper fittings beautiful as a poem
and know as much math as Copernicus.
The parts are for bombers, my lathe
makes it hard for me to hear, I forget to talk.

In the pool I drift down like a sea tortoise,
motion slurred, ancient eyes open like a fish,
solemn witness for drowned sailors, for girls
running late, carbolic acid, the operating table.

I am not a good Catholic.

No prayers for the enlarged prostate, now
patched up, I pee like a racing greyhound
but what did you expect? A bill from God?
Only that the check comes to my chair
and not to Billy whose only sin so far
is that he cannot hit a low curve ball,
or to Peggy who even now, agrees unasked
to leave her bath door ajar and stand naked
for an audience of one like a Las Vegas dancer.