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