A Saint is being murdered.
In another corner, he is dead.
At the top, we grieve the loss
of St. Peter the Martyr.
And even though di Bartolo
has Peter scrawling ‘Credo’
with his own blood, I care more
for Dominic, Peter’s travel companion.
He’s going to get it, too.
He looks up at his attacker as if to say:
All I did was eat a sandwich with the guy.
Wait a second, where is my halo?
Why is the sky made of gold?
Who will care for the donkey?
Why aren’t you painting the donkey?
The room in which he asks
these questions is climate controlled.
I walk away, the narrative sticking
enough to make me feel
I might be bludgeoned.
I buy a burrito. I try to ignore
my reflection in the window
which asks over and over:
Why isn’t anyone worried about the donkey?
Today my roof is falling.
My landlord said it was time.
Shingles instead of birds,
but I’ll augur them anyway.
The machine on my front walk
is so loud I cannot begin anything.
A blue jay lands on the clothesline
and destroys the poem. Staring
at the falling shingles, deciding
they nor I pose any threat, it flies away.