Were you wearing a hat when you smashed the window of the church? Was it a hat that I made?
Did you eat a sandwich yesterday- tossing the plastic over your shoulder? Was it a sandwich from the kitchen you set afire?
Have you come by before? Did you get a bus token, a bathroom, coffee, communion, fustrated?
Were you alone? Was it a dare? An initiation? A fruitless and annoying search for cash?
Have you sat in the building for a funeral, a wedding, a high holiday, a low Sunday?
Did you scoff at the sign about God's people all being welcomed or did you decide that hope had flown in your life, as far as you could see?
Did it matter who we were? The preschoolers, the elders, the working, the retired, the unhoused, the multiply-housed.
Or were we just there, where you were- crossing paths at a time that is now linking us both?
You may have already forgotten us, but not we you.
If you are never caught, we may still yet meet. Sandwich, hat, communion, bathroom, we'd still give them to you.
Were you wearing a hat? Was it a hat that I made?