The Painter's Audience

Mr. Ott down the street
painted statues in his garage.
Religious ones.
Gave face-lifts to faded colors.
And the Virgin shined mournfully beautiful,
her red lips haunting,
while beside her on both sides
was her son,
His arms frozen,
outstretched with pierced palms out.
Two effigies - of both the suffering and the salvation

Through the fumes of acrylic spray
I felt reverence,
close to the sacred somehow
in that paint splattered
garage down the alley
where the shirtless smoking man worked,
and I stood in awe at Their feet,
waiting, half hoping
They would speak to me.
But scared that they would,
I pedaled away
pondering what it meant
to truly believe.