Twenty years later, I still think about

the pickup truck of Virgin Marys. 

The statues shivered at every stop, their

peeled pastel paint like cracked Easter candy 

(though a tomb’s the wrong Mary).

For miles I drove behind this penned flock 

of pious downcast eyes, 

hallowed forms blessing the potholes

with rigid robe folds molded in plastic.

So serene, these Marys en masse

out for a drive - the street a dazzle of signs

and wonders they’re too adored to see.