I used to laugh at nuns

not your modern kind
who put on street clothes
and go out to work amongst the poor

I mean your Honest-to-God
old fashioned nun
swabbed in soft black
and stiff, starched white
who spends hours a day
down on cold stone knees
stransfixed on ivory beads
slipping through stiff fingers
and murmuring sweet chants
in scented air.

She thinks she is closer to God than I
and so she is
But not the God she thinks she's near

While I
who must hurry
between 3 strong roles
can intellectualize that God
and have it all laid out
as it were,
the root of my soul
Without the time to know that God
that our nun feels,
experiences
while waiting for Someone Else.