Saints In Their Stables Poem by Zyw Zywa

An afternoon with father
he directs a play
in the patron's building and
meanwhile, I wander around
the attic, room after room
musty stuff from the past

saints that I don't know
of wood that I don't know
smoothly and shiny waxed
but fallen out of favour
only sometimes as an advocate
carried on a throne in a procession

here they are real
here I can smell them
and touch them, see
their look close up and feel it
upon me from heaven
questioningly I look at them