Today her slate asks, "What do you think?"
poem I wrote two years ago about Saint Francis:
Puisque Norma a hérité
d'une statue de jardin
de Saint Francis,
je l'ai construite
une petite église
le mettre dedans, et
ai collé des colombes
de plâtre à lui --
mais aucunes plumes
collant dehors sa bouche.
It's about how she was given the little saint but he fell over too much and I had to build him a small Catholic church and glue his doves back on. She gave him a fresh coat of paint, and pointed out that the upper dove had lost a wing tip. She asked what I thought. I told her it looked suspiciously bite-sized and she should paint a few feathers sticking out of St. Francis's mouth.
This was not well-received. She gave me a look. I gesture toward her slate.
"It is still what I think," I say. "Imagine having a bird in your face for several generations. There are limits even to the patience of a saint!"
Then her cell-phone rings. Our friend, Christina --who loves us like a sister-- calls: "How is your yard today?"
"Fine!" She says, pointing the phone at me, "but there is a crazy old man in it. Look!"
What do you think?