Others say the pope should quit
to a monastery
to live out the rest of his days,
but I say look at the gnarled hands that scoop up soup on
a Saturday afternoon at the old folks home,
insistent on doing it himself, murdoch says,
dribble of reason coagulates on the tip of his chin
and the pope rolls on like murdoch,
both stubborn in their resolve,
clutching oversize spoons,
suffering from influenza
and doesn’t he look beautiful
sitting alone during bingo,
munching on fried rice
that I had brought him
despite the MSG −
once a six pack −
and now he asks the orderly for a Splenda,
which he brings −
he tears open the package himself,
as if following a medieval rubric,
gingerly pouring the contents into his mug that reads:
what do you get when you work like a mule?
O L D
stenciled across the porcelain
in a marker felt type.
© 2005 Greig Roselli
