The Pale Saint

It all begins for Lazarus at the sound of the bell, Late nights at the White Hart, where he met His wife, and the girl he sees twice a week – Alice, Whose complaints are compensated for by her huge Smile and the wink she gives after a joke Or when she orders a pint of ale.

Lazarus knows his way home by the feel of brick On his palms and knuckles, his ankles rolling and buckling, His hands following the endless wall around the corner – Perhaps a trip or a fall; though it’s less than a quarter mile To his door, sometimes he fails to make it at all – Not by Alice’s blame, who lives a mile the other way,

But the saint’s – the saint he meets lying in the street, Needing help, always hoarse – beckoning Lazarus Nearer. And as his head falls close to the saint’s lips Lazarus becomes warm, feels safe, until held up By the armpits – feet dragging, and is reason For the siren.

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