A History of the Saints

A History of the Saints

There is a baby crying next door.
I don't know the parents. They
Moved in just last week but I think
They are gone now. It isn't
A low baby cry of idleness, but
The caterwauling of need. I could never
Sleep through that sound, and soon
I would not be able to sit through it
And soon not stand through it.
At the door Mrs. Havershaum
Wants to know if I know
Whose baby is howling, where
The parents are. I tell her
About the new neighbors, their
Spindly furniture, their mismatched
Curtains. They could be the baby's parents
Or kidnappers or surrogates. I
Wouldn't know. Someone else
Steps into the hallway. He is from
The building next door and wants to know
Whose baby is howling, where
The parents are. He leans towards us
More concerned than annoyed. I am
Only the next door neighbor, I
Am not responsible. A young girl
Writhes into the hallway in nothing
But a damp towel and for her concern
No one notices how near to naked she is.
I tell the story again of the neighbors
I do not know, the look of their belongings
On moving in, the uncertainty of their current whereabouts.
A delivery driver I have never seen
Edges into the hallway, fixed
On my rabble of words, his face flush with worry
And the imagination of all that could
Have led to this unfathomable point.
Social order, even if random, makes for civilization.
The hallway is ablaze with citizenry,
Each akindle over the howling of a baby.
Seconds later I am pounding at my neighbors' door,
First with only a fist, then with two,
Not so much for the baby, but
For myself, for these gaping
Leaderless people, lives suspended,
The focused need, the unfocused outcome.