A scofflaw Christ, he mounts the wrought
balcony to sermonize between bites of fruit.
His musty words cast out, over
an impoverished lot, its multitudes lost
among clumps of grass, weed and clover.
This day's gospel topic: the waiting-to-be
attitudes of a conformist flock he extols
from their meeker paths in vague hope
to inherit a less unkempt earth.
Black rail receiving the leaned weight
of narrow hips, this mock Jesus extends only
one arm, and with graceful arc tosses
a twice-bitten plum, to bounce and roll
where his disciples might some day stand.
Till that coming time, when craned necks await
his offerings to remedy sleeping hungers,
these peels, husks and wrappers of half-eaten
confections, his pittances, will lay in stead,
as he withdraws from reverie's limelight,
to a kitchen well-stocked with sweetness to impart.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #92: Word Gems at Read Write Poem. The 13 words from the challenge are italicized to ease their spotting.