A poem…

Abelard or Saint Bernard

Dogs hide their souls

In wells,

They bark and bite

In the cold alley,

The pack scruffy

Animates the charge.

Many are the kinds,

To be an Abelard or

Saint Bernard,

A question life asks

Is often too hastily

Answered.

An old greybeard

Won’t know it,

Give a crozier rap on his

Tombstone doorway,

Summon the sages

From Navarre to

Galilee to give

Good counsel.

They’ll mull it over

Like a bin of oats,

And when it’s well

Chewed, you’ll

See a gold statue

Out the oven,

That old furnace

Pocket.

When the show ends

I’ll be much better

Informed to say.

 

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