OUR LADY OF TROYES
You may blanket the cold with your
stiff arm, and light all the candles
you wish, but there's nothing that's
quite so good as just praying to
One comes down the steps, each
night, almost, at the center-stage
loft of one Harry Weems. Not the
Parson you may be thinking of,
this is just Harry. He runs the
small theater which fronts there.
Harry loves the very old plays -
all those contorted and monstrous
morality things, up along the
wooden platform, with hand-held
lights by a stage guy or two.
All these archaic saints and holy
people of the sort my mother would
have liked : can't do anything wrong,
already have halos as young kids;
they probably spoke in tongues
from the day they were born.
Holy angels who get drunk on
water, knowing it already is
a probable wine.