by Scott Caputo
My uncle, the priest, is always late for Thanksgiving dinner.
He always comes, visibly tired
from staying up all night baking bread,
dozens of miniature loaves,
he later sprinkled with holy water
then gave out to the crowd of children
who received the gift for their families.
What drove him to do something
no one expected?
It probably began with one loaf
then multiplied.
He kept thinking even at 2 AM
with a homily to write,
will this be enough?
He could see the one
who would get nothing,
knew that person as if it were himself.
No, God forgets no one.
Even though we already have rolls,
my mom generously uses his loaves first.
We pass them around, breaking open
his night's work with our hands,
and for a brief moment, he is calm,
letting his eyes close as we all begin to eat.
Man of Loaves appeared previously in Poetry Explosion Newsletter
