We’ll pass the Padre Pio Cabernet
around this stained glass tank of piercéd sides,
repeating what those tiny voices say
from somewhere in their broken pots of clay,
petitioning the would-be suicides.
Hey, pass that Padre Pio Cabernet!
Impressive, how we put the grape away
and squeeze it through our tourniquets in tides—
Yet frequently we hear the voices say
they don’t believe our drippy passion play.
“Your pantomime,” they say, “of Mr. Hydes
will pass like Padre Pio Cabernet
through Mother Goose!” And just the other day
we heard novitiate cathedral guides
repeating what the tiny voices say:
“The bleeders’ oughta cork the damn Padre
and mop up all their sloppy old peptides.”
We’ll pass… The Padre Pio Cabernet
repeats on tiny voices anyway.