A man in gray cotton tweed
Paper white button up
White crane Sunday best
Tie, pinned doorknocker of paisley silk
He is no less than sixty-five
Never in the fast lane
Beard, a December frost on car windows
There’s a shovel in his hands
As he stands in front of the church
On the hour of my passing
He presses blade upon slush and concrete
Clears a path to god’s house
As if it was his own
Takes careful consideration of stone, stealth in snow
Applies pressure, holds back
Silent beauty

I think of him now
Clearing the way.
I like to believe
That if he died there in that labor
He’d be in the express lane to heaven
St. Peter or his cashier of choice
Would see him with his shovel
Smile at his 10 items or less
And let him walk the path he cleared