Touch

At a reception in his last days Tennessee WilliamsFinds Mother Theresa sitting on a sofaPlaces his small self beside herPuts his head on her lap

A god of art—but to her a strangerShe does what she's always doneRuns a gentle handOver his head … once … twice

Here's Theresa with her lightHere's Tennessee without his wordsAnd with her touchNo need to be afraid