When the saints...

I'm
not
saintly
people say
but saints intrigue me:
plaster statues standing in rows
patient outsiders lined up at Nativity scenes,
in paintings they loiter at the Crucifixion as if they're waiting at a bus stop.
Most leave centre-stage for the Biblical superstars.
Fancy-dress Prufrocks,
scene-fillers,
loners,
left
out.

Man
with
an axe
in his head,
Peter the Martyr
wearing the weapon that killed him
like a trilby hat, haute couture cool, no pain, no blood.
It takes style to wear horror with such insouciance – why all the fuss? I hear him ask.
He stands three places left of Saint John, his axe a badge
No one notices –
he deserves
to be
a
saint.