OUTSIDE OF THIS
Were I to take the rag and wipe your
face, what of it then? Some after-image
that a Pope and rabble would soon revere?
All those putrid stories of men with crutches
suddenly running?Healed and cured minions?
Beyond anything else, a Mother Theresa day
of awe and wonder? Kneel to pray, stay that way?
Look, look at the sunlight hitting that dark blue
car; its windows shining back a beautied glare.
I love these things, I love them all.
Why am I too not a saint revered?