Papal

Even a pope can’t keep his nose clean,
pressing it against the events of history,
the smut of führers and dictators, ranks
of perverts in the sacristy. Beneath lit candles,
each tries the hinges of conscience—call out
injustice or work so subtly in the margins
he will seem to have done nothing? God
gives each enough rope to hang with.
We make and pick out knots, press
finger and thumb to nape and Adam’s apple.
Who can look posterity baldly in the eye?
From conclaves of bent heads, smoke—
neither black nor white, but something in between.