Urban Madonna

She’s a splotchy Virgin
with the spent spray paint
of her anonymous violators.

She stands always erect
surrounded by an inverted halo
of dull asphalt and cement,

in a patch of burnt grass
and a few thriving weeds.
She’s an unwavering apparition

with generous hands outstretched,
and a serene face
that looks upon but not down on

the fumy rush of traffic
ignorant of or baffled by
her incongruous and anachronistic

love.