then I demand a saint;
perhaps another slattern
accused but not convicted.
There is no record printed
of washing dusty feet
on their gold-inked
see-through pages.
It's folklore for the barstools.
Who wouldn't love a god
so humble to scrub seed
from between the toes of harlots?
It trumps the evening news.
But you never lose a button
on a shirt that came with extras
stitched in some hidden place
that even lovers miss
so while we're missing lovers
and playing Cunning Linguist
here's a dose of braggart's folly
that the unsubscribed won't share:
The only sight that's sweeter
than a note found after work
is a second hidden deeper
in the same excited scrawl;
a cinema star's signature;
more I wouldn't risk.
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