Sister Mary Agatha was always in a hurry,

Her habit flying behind her unbecomingly

As she briskly pushed the baby buggy of

Sister Aloysius’ youngest orphan to join

The flock at the orphanage.

The rest of us trailed far behind

Because no one could ever

Keep up with Sister Mary Agatha

On our daily outings.

She raced through the streets of Boston

As if Satan himself was nipping at her heels;

Mother Superior frowned severely

At such behavior,

Unbecoming a sister of the cloth,

And I know for a fact

That Sister Mary Agatha

Was often in hot water

After a parishioner reported

Our flying nun

To Mother Superior;

The reason I know this is

Because I had often

Fallen from grace myself,

And found myself sitting on the

Hard wooden chair

Outside Mother Superior’s office,

Waiting to be beckoned

Into the inner sanctum

To meet my fate

And as often as not

Have my hands slapped

With Mother Superior’s

Thick wooden ruler.

I often wondered if

Sister Mary Agatha

Got her hands smacked, too.

It was hard to tell–

Those nuns kept their hands hidden

In the folds of their black habits.


I left the orphanage when I was

Eighteen years old

And I never looked back

So, I never knew

The fate of

Sister Mary Agatha (Always

In a Hurry).


Sandra Lee Smith/originally written April, 2009

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