The Princess and the Pauper

I heard about it in church on Sunday
And wondered why the odd minister—
Dressed as she was in white and burlap,
With her hair badly in need of a trim and
Maybe a dye job—
Would talk about a princess
And ask us all to pray and cry for the dethroned
Twenty years away and this,
This is church now?
I decided that afternoon that I still don’t like church.
My hair was being cut and dyed and
The hairdresser clucked and said,
“Such a shame, such a shame.”
I clucked and agreed as we watched the news.
I wondered if he meant my hair or the princess.

A week went by and I heard the news,
While I was dreaming through a dress shop:
One fit for a princess and out of my league.
The Saint of Saints, Mother Theresa died.

That night I wondered about the irony of
How I learned about these two women.
A week apart was already fodder for symbology.
Of course, this from me, who picks up pennies
Thinking they’re messages from heaven.
That night it stormed like never before.
I thought I saw UFOs between the lightning strikes.
I opened the curtains and lay in bed watching,
Smiling at the joke.
Princesses and paupers; temples and boutiques;
But which was which?
It’s like Grandma said, “It all comes clean in the wash.”

Written for "SLAM!" .