I got lost going to a church and ended up at a bar.
It’s not a punch line and that is exactly what it is.
Not in either sense. But maybe in another one.
It wasn’t a bar in one of those senses either,
with faux Celtic shields on the walls that may
have been racist or at best insulting if I knew better.
There must have been another calling for St. Anthony too.
That’s why I wanted to find him, to ask him how. To ask why.
I didn’t know that Jesus sent his men to Ellicott City,
the moss covered state of Maryland that reeks of crab.
No one plans to be there, but we all end up there someone.
The bar served boxed wine. Too much boxed wine. Too pink.
Wikipedia says that St. Anthony is the saint for those that are lost.

Originally published in the Tiny Tim Literary Review and seen on Medium


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