In a world
	preoccupied
		with the complexities
			of greed and
				everyone's
					own sense of
						absolutes
					it was always
				nice
			to look up
		at the screen
In the intimacy
	of home
		and see that hobo
			flavored
				preacher
					weaving sermons
						spoken
					in the language
				of a child's
			pantomime
		which didn't need
	the scholarship of
Hebrew
	Greek or
		Sanskrit
			intellects to
				understand
					just a willingness
				to spread one's
			own tattered
		patchwork
	arms
And fly on the fingers
	of a smile
		melting geo-political
			manuscripts
				in the furnace
			of a simple
		silent
	pair of baggy pants
And an old derby hat

(c) 1997 James Oliver Smith, Jr