The Holy Place was built well.
The best architects were engaged.
The best materials were hauled from the
valleys up to the mountaintop
for the sacred construction.
I myself sat in a parked car down in
the valley gazing up.
My car with its moribund transmission
couldn’t be trusted to make the trip up
and I couldn’t, certainly, by foot.
I wasn’t young and suffered from
gout and arthritis.
I sat in the car smoking a cigarette.
I thought of angels.
By Donald Lev