Waifer raised.

Loud faces sat tight,
subconscious screams, like
the baby shushed.

He could walk down the red carpet.
He could with as many angels as it takes.

Waifer to tongue.

His white head was a Roman statue
without paint.

Eyes closed, never needing
to be open. Giant cross on the wall.

He could read the nailed palm.
The future line was split
by death. It made sense, always sense.
You or I, we'd speak
with something to say,
yet it never made sense.

No tension in his voice, just Latin
turned English. I stopped filling the room.
I filed out too politely.

He could stand at that alter,
read from that book.
No suspense for him, just heavy weights
on the pews,
waiting,
shushing themselves.