Little Saint Tom
Alms descend on us,
as his blessed ashes do -
for Sunday's congregation
bow before Little Saint Tom,
their speech that of tongueless obedience,
touched only by a freedom
men of his small little town ilk ration among wretched sinners -
those who sneaked downtown at midday
to revel in Sin City's diamond lights,
those who failed to open doors for a lady,
or neglect to curtsy her as "ma'am" -
Little Saint Tom put all evil right
in our little smalltown universe,
imprinting his holy ashes
on our wretched scalps;
though, as some among us recall,
sainthood was optional
behind officialdom's door,
for innocents branded
as shameful souls nonetheless,
felonies which didn't exist, framed on
bystanders all the same,
places the blessed ashes choose not to blow,
at least not as hard as his congregation's King James speech would blow.
One must commend Little Saint Tom -
for when those who followed his righteous
path sin far greater
than those great unwashed -
forgiveness is easier to ration out like his bleeding Sunday ashes,
on those of his ilk for whom no shame nor guilt is on show,
stuffed in brown envelopes at five star Monday lunches -
Little Saint Tom
would wash the feet of sinners, as righteous seers do;
well, G.A.A. playing sinners at least;
for let he with county final prestige
cast the first righteous stone.
Charles Bronson shot Henry Fonda down
with a screaming silence men like Little Saint Tom understand on Sundays,
in the procession of his saintly entourage,
a man's wrinkled face
and creeping smile say more
than that lost teenage rage could ever do,
searing before Little Saint Tom's
on high altar -
had crumbled to ashes of his virtue.
Only one shot left to save the day,
Little Saint Tom -
go plant another tree….
John Doyle is from County Kildare in Ireland. He returned to writing poetry in February 2015 after a gap of nearly 7 years. Since then he's had 7 poetry collections published. His 7th collection, "Isolated Incidents" was published by Pski's Porch in Summer 2021.


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