On the occasion of my recent reading of some of Anne Lamott’s work, while at the same time having work done to fix our well in Wisconsin, the following poem emerged. Maybe oil and water do mix once in awhile…
Prayer to St. Annie
Hail Annie, full of grease,
Piss and vinegar
(Yet finally clean and bright).
Thou anointest my head
With ancient axle grease,
Fresh and forever,
But made to look dirty nevertheless.
My pump runneth over.
Thou art the patron of indoor plumbing,
The well that never runs dry,
Tapped into the great stream of Consciousness,
Into the grace that needs no soap nor pipe,
No wrench nor plumber,
Naught but myself and these two hands,
Two eyes, one heart, one head,
And a book.
Almost any book will do,
Though some are better than others,
And only one tops the list.
Your own books rank high.
They are useful.
They are like telephone books for my soul:
Multi-purpose booster seats
For my babbling baby spirit,
When the table is spread before me,
But I can’t quite reach my plate.
And when I need to call
St. Joe the Plumber–
Or someone to clean my septic
(My infected, filthy, underground innards),
To haul away all the waste
And dredge up the icky, smelly, sticky past–
I open you,
My faithful, accurate,
Holy soul-a-phone book,
And I find the right number,