Francis has a girlfriend, Francis has a girlfriend, I sing
in my best taunting kindergarten voice, but he is not amused,
lifts the book to glance at the cover. Doesn’t look like Clare
at all, not even close to catching the light, the joy—the love.
He flips to the back. Really? Was it worth $12.95? And how
much of your time did this take? Think of important matters,
real matters, matters of the Lord, the symphony of sparrows,
the shimmering dance with Brother Sun bright all around us,
the ever presence of Sister Poverty, the discourse of donkeys.
How the people still come asking for medicine and miracle.
I say I’m sorry. Must’ve touched a nerve, but even Jesus turned
water into wine, praised the goodness of olive trees waving
their welcome in the wind and it’s not like you, Francis, so serious
so heavy hearted when I see his frown is fake and he’s reaching
for his famous two-stick fiddle and soon he is sawing those
sticks faster than Charlie Daniels and high stepping around
the room and I jump in bowing to our partners, saying hello
around our partners, here we go, around our partners do-si-do,
swinging high in the sunlight every lover we never had.