Mid-town Manhattan, off Broadway,
Is not the most inspiring place in our land.
Clerks and shop people, spewed from the subways,
Hurry to offices and stores.
Commuters, jolted into Penn Station from Long Island,
Scurry to sanctuary skyscrapers.
Tourists, streetwalkers, panhandlers,
Motley habitants of a brick-encased jungle,
Stream back and forth along 32nd Street’s crowded sidewalks
Intent on the tasks of the day,
Or the pleasures of the evening.
But in a tiny court
Not a dozen feet from this traffic,
Nestled behind a church of St. Francis,
Is a kneeling statue of the Assisi saint.
Some people step into the church,
Others pause a second
And whisper a prayer.
Some touch Francis’ hand or knee with their fingers,
Some just hesitate -- to look,
And then continue on.
There has been a moment of uplift.
Inspiration has found its way to these sidewalks.
The spirit of a saint has blessed the multitudes,
And the bronze statue is shiny with gentle touches of love.
A never-ceasing miracle Is unfolding in the canyons of mid-Manhattan Because Francis of Assisi is there.
