PRAYERS

For the first time in years St. Jerome
Hauled out his inks and quills
And hand-lettered some pages;
His lion posted them on streetlights.
They advised the world that the saint
Would no longer answer prayers
Would not, in fact, even listen
To anything sounding like a prayer.
Some, though, live in great fear
That their prayers might be answered;
When Jerome next woke, on his grating
On the shadowed side of Seventh Avenue,
He was under a passion of prayers
Who'd crawled near him in the night,
Trusting he would ignore them.

HARRINGTON'S MUSE

James Harrington, I hear, had a rough muse
She'd come to him late at night, drunk,
Her clothes torn from a fight she'd picked
With a sailor twice her size and kick Harrington
Until he’d throw off the covers and leave his bed.
He’d stumble about, lighting a candle,
Sharpening a quill, spilling ink on his nightshirt,
While she stood muttering to herself or shouting
"Haste, laggard! I’ve a bonzer poem for you!"
Many a time, when he was finally set to write
He'd find her collapsed on his bed, snorting,
Thrashing, choked on tears and laughter,
And then she’d sleep the clock around.
He left her at last for the sedate goddess
Of lengthy works of political economy.

MOVING

The last public letter writer
Puts her feathers and inks in a bag
Which she slings over her shoulder.
The table and chair follow her
Since she's too old to carry them.
The cat lingers in the photo
For a few minutes, then comes too.