clean escape . . .

what was she doing, in this place, why at this time so sacred?

For 20 years he’d moved away, and purged of her so fragrant.

Was he hypocrite stew, naked before men, was all that he’d accomplished undone?

How did this thread of painful past and awkward knots so run?

If disappearing were a holy act, he’d push that button at once

and yet a part of all his growth demanded to forego such punts.

But how to focus on heaven’s bread, when there in the rows was his thorn?

and what a vice her soul so nice, a million hungers re-born.

And so he did what you’d half-expect, he picked up the pages of Bible

and sermonized that very day of a change in heart none could libel.

He looked at the Cross; he looked at the Mother, He looked at the Oil so prayed for.

And as he concluded the homily of his life, he looked out to the message she’d not stayed for.