The world is a hotel with no reception desk.
The gift of eloquence no common good.
That’s not how the loaves and fishes were shared.
Over portside the bones the meat over starboard.
You’ll lose your head and it’s raining hats,
money for the rich, and for the poor more kids.
I know of bread I’d shred into pieces,
morsels that could do for later;
if only a crumb could fill you up,
could satisfy, could open your mouth.
Like lifeboats on the majestic Titanic,
a thicket of combs for the man
with no hair.
The urbi et orbi of rhetoric: ‘neither is he here
nor are we expecting him’
Beards are knit here and you’re a chinless wonder.
Some mouths were handed out a three-second memory.
And God will give this bread
to someone with less teeth.
Translation by Keith Payne