Crowds come, he speaks, we cast out spirits, heal.
As a career move I could have done worse.
Mobility is upward here, I feel
for I’m the one he chose to keep the purse.
But he attracts the common, sick and poor,
his teachings contradict, they don’t make sense:
First shall be last? Great riches won’t endure?
Expose hypocrisy, unveil pretense?
Patience, I say, in time he will be king;
at lunch she pours rich perfume on his head.
He calls it good and not a wasteful thing:
“It’s a memorial; soon I will be dead.”
I erred. No future here, inner voice chides,
but—other ladders lean on other sides.
Violet Nesdoly 