Dream of Father Paschal and the Fries

AI dream priest

It’s Saturday night.
I’m walking home from Wendy’s,
a large to-go bag

in my hands, when whom
should I chance to meet but my
old favorite monk,

Father Paschal, who
is hurrying to vigil
mass to celebrate

it, no doubt, in his
cheerful energetic way.
It occurs to me

I haven’t seen him
in a while and haven’t told
him about my drift

away from the church,
my veering towards something like
zen, and my divorce.

Perhaps I’m also
vaguely aware, in the dream,
of the odd fact that

Father Paschal is
no longer a denizen
of this world, and so

perhaps this walk is
taking place in a border
zone between this life

and the next, which is
fine; so I offer him some
fries and open the 

bag to reveal two
large cartons of them nestled
beside some burgers

I’m bringing back home
for my daughters who often
resort to such fare.

“No thanks,” the padre
says, seeming to straighten up
and quicken his pace.

But then the drift of
the penumbra of the warm
salty, tasty fries

seems to reach him, and
he pauses to examine them.
“Well, on second thought …”

He plunges both hands
into the grease-stained paper
bag and pulls out two

large, lovely handfuls,
commencing with gusto to
eat as we walk on.

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