Grout

Sometimes I have the fantasy that I will find the spotlight.  Usually that fantasy doesn*t last very long.  I am called to serve on the edges, to caulk pieces together.  I am grout:  truly a noble calling. Grout does not fit a marketing niche.

The tile guy

Is halfway through the project.

His grout

Is immaculate.

Last night I dreamed myself

At a clergy convention.

I watched everything,

Observed the son of a

Loquacious colleague

Pontificate before the masses

Assembled.

My colleague beamed

A father*s pride.

His brother asked question after question.

When I looked out

On the assembly

People were leaving right and left.

They*re not listening

I said

Look, they*re leaving!

I said.

My colleague continued to beam

A father*s pride.

Last night I dreamed

A picture being taken

Of the whole Diocese

On stage.

I was under the risers

With a colleague I knew

Had to be in the picture.

I raised her up on my shoulders

So she would appear in the picture

In the middle

Of the back row.

When I woke up

I realized

I am grout:

The necessary caulking

Between the tiles,

Or perhaps the leading
on a stained glass window.

I am not immaculate

Like the tile guy*s grout

Or even Mary.

Still: I am grout.

I make necessary commentary.

Sometimes I lift people on my shoulders

So they can be in the picture.