Jude, notoriously obscure, and yet the patron
Of numberless lost causes, hopeless cases:
Quite a portfolio, Saint, for one so little known;
I introduce myself as one of yours.

I love your dark, Laconic, reprehensive letter;
Be also patron of polemicists,
Martin Marprelate, Johnnie M, and so much lesser,
Me; I can see you also like allusions.

Your emblem is a club; I guess they beat you down;
You’d feel at home on Facebook, then, or Twitter;
You don’t seem humorous, and yet you had some fun,

Clouds without rain – that’s good – trees without fruit – and better,
Great swelling words, yet servile to the person.
Fair cop, Saint Jude; you’ve got us, got us, to the letter.

The dream, once frequent, now recurs no more;
I flew at will; stretched arms, and effortless
Went air-borne; and above the tediousness
Of dreary home-town scenes dreamt I could soar.

Confidence all. Belief opened the door;
I can do this; no tiresome fussy mess
Of flight checks, fuelling up; I just address
The sky; my dismal schoolyard distant floor.

But earthbound now, the everlasting pull
Of gravitas asserts itself; for me
No hope to soar again; sharp once, now dull;

Sea level not so bad though, or to be
Set on old dirt and ancient stone. I mull
The options. Guess I’ll have to wait and see.