When you meet a hypocrite
That wills to greet you over some tea,
Do you take that offer and break some bread
Or take yourself on a walk instead?
Like, hey; like, think hard, boy,
This is a man we speak of who denounced the Brit.
A woman who took no shit at deconstruction’s call.
Who spent five nights in The Lighthouse, Galle.
Over tea, then? Would you? To speak
Parrot would you go. To talk of women
Who come and go: who talk of Michaelangelo?
He was your hero from a hundred and sixty three years ago.
I know. I know you look at me across
The table. And I knew. I knew your word
Was, in part, a fable. I knew that you know. He knows
That that is not how I choose my heroes. The story goes
How I never questioned you, when the chance was open
And how I never resisted you in what you said. You made sense
And hence, I listened to what you had to say
Of things that seemed to come your way.
I’ve released you, now, or you have let me go
And I have climbed a hill and I watch you show
A mirror a hidden shaft you carry beneath your cloth.
I smile and I don’t swear a terrible oath.