She saw that she had been seen touching the young sailor’s fly.
The two cops would drive down the long street, turn at the corner,
and come back. The paper bag she carried was still warm.
It was the week of hot cross buns.
She followed a group carrying casseroles up stone steps into the churchyard.
She was half sick, half hungry.
She placed her hot cross buns on a platter with somebody’s Danish.
She accepted a paper plate of baked beans and sat down on the grass,
her back against a young tree.
The man in the priest’s collar came over to her,
smiled a welcome and asked, “Are you OK?”
Without thinking, she took his hand and held it to her cheek.
“I’ve been stoned for six days,” she said.
The two policemen were at the gate.
He went over to them, laughed, and shook his head; they left.
The woman said, “Jesus.”
It always made her sick, people eating wieners.
The priest was about to speak; the crowd fell silent.
“Jesus,” she said again, “I guess I was more hungry than sick.”
A great peace came over her; she fell asleep
leaning against the tree, and someone’s little white dog
licked her plate clean.