Holy - Poem by Eric Torgersen
Whitman felt his ribs and found the fat holy.
Poor mad Smart found Geoffrey the cat holy.
Growing up on Yankee turf I found
a Mickey Mantle Louisville Slugger bat holy.
A grown man now, I do confess to finding
one pose you strike on your new blue yoga mat holy.
I have not one objection to your calling
the old man in the robe and pointy hat holy.
No reason, if it helps you stalk the tiger,
not to call its trim and pungent scat holy.
Would you please shut that squalling monster up
(although in theory I find the little brat holy)?
I still recall how Allen lightened up
the crowd at the reading by saying, "It's not all that holy."
Can we agree to stop calling every last thing
that makes our little hearts go pitter-pat holy?
Perhaps someday I'll take the begging bowl
and call each last flea, tick and gnat holy.
Don't be so pleased with that so-called self of yours, Eric,
till you call the fires of the Benares ghat holy.
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