The Old Priest, grinding teeth in cheerless smile
and trembling knees under careful wrinkles
looks out his window. The insular tile
his lawn with their news cameras swiveled
and tracked and craned and bayed and yet idle.
Encamped, full flanking, they drum a warlike style
and drive his neighbors mad with wonder till
the rally point bulges with rankophiles.
"There!" they claim, "He lives in there. Here we'll stand
a close-linked chain," they feign, "We will wait here."
And they wait. While, encircled, he overhears
the day's complaint. At glass and door demands
come with a knock, knock, knock, "Put up your frock!"
But with eyes that mock, the Old Priest eyes the Clock.
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