Jonathan West in the Lion’s Den

They have asked him to read the writing
Conveniently placed upon the subway wall,
And now that he has told them it is a stain,
A symbol, and no human expression,
They have locked him up again,
Hoping that he will be impaled on a wine bottle.

Byzantine Rite

Mr. Lazarus, you were there with me,
Though I was dressed better,
Wearing a pearl gray suit, three piece,
Not quite a morning coat, no top hat,
But my neck and locked jaw
Were in place thanks to tie and pin.

I had a drink in my hand, white wine,
And we walked down to the church,
A ruin, you thought, but no,
I convinced you it was alive inside,
Celebrating its rising mass
By means Anglican and catholic.

Inside, we stepped into the congregation
That was bursting into halos,
Lazarus, you claimed it was golden
From the mosaics, tiles sparkling
Like small Polaroids of sun,
Either way I enjoyed my wine better.

The young man in scarlet, looking
Feverish except for his blonde hair,
He escorted me and you out,
Seems they hated my wine, though
I tried to convince them white
Would have kept the savior healthy.