ON BEING A SAINT A robin flies to the top Of the shingled well shade, Glances in through the window to our kitchen and Then on up to the roof Over my head And gone...out of sight To where robins go When we can't see them. Bushes, nests, eating And singing. Doing whatever it is they do To stay alive. Parasites in dead birds! Causes me to wonder about Their life, The quality of their lives and Really, have you seen a robin mate? Their eggs have blue shells. Blue-hoo, I have seen them broken On the ground. When is a robin not a robin? When he's a saint. When is that? When he's not a robin...same as me. I'm a human except when I'm a saint And when I'm a saint I'm not a human or A robin. I've never been a saint Or a robin. I don't fly well enough Or high enough To qualify. And I don't lay eggs with blue shells. I've been on the roof But I had to use a ladder, Although I once climbed a tree To get there. I've never seen a saint. I don't know what they do when they're around. They might fly, Eat worms, Sing and Lay eggs in a nest for all I know. For all I know. Not likely, But you couldn't prove it by Me. Stephen Morse 1980+?