Maybe It Is a Prayer

There’s braille stamped on the handle

Of the hospital table

And on no other surface,

Which seems, well, inadequate

And wholly superfluous.

The Sunday School child in you

Feels homily coming on,

The wonderful way pastors

In the long-form tradition

Of weekly Baptist sermons

Could take any anecdote

Or random observation

And make of it a lesson

Illustrating biblical

Principles, sinner’s weakness—

This line of braille, for instance,

Could remind the Youth Pastor

Of all things mysterious,

Of love’s mysteriousness,

Cryptic, private messages

In the manner of romance—

What might seem like a guideline,

Like useful information,

But is so inscrutable

And simultaneously

Woefully inadequate

But also superfluous,

Unlike God’s love, radiant,

Unconfined and abundant,

And so forth. The point isn’t

A bit of braille as a source

For the rich target of love—

The point’s to take the random,

Tie a spiritual meaning

To it, then stretch the conceit

To the snapping point, weaving

In a Bible verse or two

From, say, First Corinthians,

Chapter 13, about love,

The greatness of divine love,

Which is at once both ample

And essential. Close with prayer.