Anchorite

You pass the time with
Oblique references
To old bridges and brushfires
Dousing the charred history in wine,
Your hands shaking with fervor
And unpardonable zeal,
Like a palsied
Anchorite
Seeking virtue in the most unlikely places;
The sod and earth shallows of a stream
Panhandled dry long ago,
The banal swale of lackluster dirt
Upon which you reside;
A flagellant in hiding
With your books
And your mildew
And your Holier-Than-Thou’s.
Assuming
One day the innocents
Will come clawing at your door
So that you might offer them
A lonely old fool’s
Rendition of Salvation