Sanctuary

I pull open the door of the only church in town that isn't locked. Four hours past dark by now. Damn the Methodists, Catholics, First Presbyterians, First Christians, UUs and Baptists; two wet thumbs up for the Second Presbies. “It's raining out there and I'm alone,” I announce to the dark room. “I'm sleeping here.” It's ugly, and not very warm, but at least it doesn't echo. Felt banners with goofy cutout doves and trumpets absorb my words, and fuzzy carpeting absorbs the gunk my boots track down the aisle. Rain or no, I'd have slept outside, in a covered dumpster or maybe under an alley awning, if Liza had been with me. Dog warmth and dog sighs even let me get a little dreaming in. But since we got split up at the train crossing, it's been churches and piped-in air all the way. I can't sleep out without her, and I sure haven't dreamed in two weeks. The best spot for curling up, if I've got to be in, is usually behind the pulpit. It's like a little fortress. In six hours or so, when a janitor or old lady or somebody comes in to straighten up, I'll have a few seconds unseen to formulate an exit strategy. I get into place and cover up with a cloth drape from the altar. “No I don't believe,” I add, addressing the drop-ceiling. “And if you see my dog, tell her to come home.”

Cosmos and dog

It’s been a long supermarket night of many How Are Yous, Thank Yous, Have a Good Ones, much bagging, scanning, smiling, joking, cleaning, counting money. Thus the hours have gone, and it’s cold, black, nearly bedtime, and I am out collecting abandoned shopping carts from far corners of the parking lot. I lean into metal, crash them together, drag them along under floodlights. Things are moving, making noise, par and normal until I happen to look to the sky: The universe unfolds straight up and outward forever. It swallows earth and all its shoppers, putting our blue marble in its rightful place floating in a backwater intestine. Suddenly the cashier is gone and I am a microbe swimming in Why am I here? What is this? and How did these carts get into creation? My chain of metal keeps rolling toward the warm, glowing store, pure inertia, and I’ll soon be swallowed back into the mundane— but not before the eye of a doleful yellow retriever catches mine. He sits politely in the backseat of an idling hatchback, tilts his head. His eye blinks placidly and says: I know, huh.