| | He’s got no bishops’ mitre, nor no fancy purple cloak
He’s got no golden crucifix, and his chanting often croaks,
He’s got no halo on his head, though his crown shines bright and bare,
His gravity has pulled it down—now his chin has all the hair!
His bright eyes flicker through the windows of his spectacles,
They’ve grown to be a part of him, the rims that frame his soul,
Still fastened on his nose, even when he sleeps or has to sneeze,
A symbiotic fixture, like the lichens on the trees.
But his mouth’s his greatest feature, from which floods of wisdom flow;
He stammers and he mumbles, but you know he always knows
You raise your hand; he searches through the bookshelves of his mind
He takes one down, and opens it, finds the page that’s underlined.
His namesake an apostle, you’d expect a saintly air,
His wisdom and kind counsel leave no disappointment there;
But I wonder if St. Peter ever leaned back on one chair leg
I wonder if he giggled or drank coffee by the keg.
Our Muscovite St. Peter might not be the average breed
You wouldn’t find him in an abbey, or on the pages of St. Bede,
But his twinkling eye, his coffee mug, his humble stammering tongue
Are the better parts of sainthood, which alas oft go unsung.
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| | Posted 1/26/2008 3:03 PM - 98 Views - 6 eProps - 3 comments
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