The Bat and St. Francis

by

Thomas Michael McDade

The bat hanging
from my curtain rod
like an exotic
pepper in a deli
imagines life
as a mouse
strolling
in my walls -
a nimble herbivore
napping in
pink insulation.
When a hell
of lamplight
interrupts
and my broom
dislodges him
he shouts small
rabies warnings.
Swept into
a grocery bag
he curses
his clumsy wings
and envies mice
their escape
agility.
Releasing him,
I feel like St. Francis
and the moon
is my tonsure.
But there are no miracles.
The bat’s wings still work
like reapers
and he can’t grit his teeth
against the bloody harvest
for long.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Arrows of Time
by: Frank Valentyn
from: Johannesburg, Gauteng, South Africa

To visit all of Thomas Michael McDade's poems, click HERE

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