Poem of the Week

“It’s mistake seventy-three,” he cried,

While pounding the lectern face.

He rounded off with a vocal right,

Then with his left, his ace.

With vigor the congregation nodded,

Bobbling up and down.

Assuring him his points were made,

Though they uttered not a sound.

With seventy-three he said it all,

Now stood all words unbound.

He clasped, then gasped one final breath,

Then fell “whump” to the ground.

The echo stirred the nodding crowd,

They awoke to a deadly scene.

Their beloved pastor on the pulpit floor,

After sharing point seventy-three.

The clock told three hours passed,

Since starting at point one.

In humid summer air they slept,

Till he finished and was done.

They gazed, the somber scene before,

Yet all they knew and heard,

Was him shouting out through their sluggish thoughts,

Point seventy-three his words.

The undertaker had come, then gone,

But the congregation unmoved.

The question of point seventy-three,

Darkened the air and mood.

Deacon Dan rose; queried the crowd,

“What words these seventy-three?

Be it anyone here, who can share their truths,

God’s blessing will receive.”

Sally McChatter leapt to her feet,

Before his words had died.

Be it true or false, she was never at loss,

With news, she conjured inside.

“Pastor Tom, that not his name.

I can never keep it straight.

I’ve rested here for twenty years,

It’s Ned! Without debate!”

“I saw him chat with Sid Druggist’s wife,

On the day before last night.

About Sid’s affair,” and everyone looked,

Sid slid down out of sight.

She spoke another twenty more,

On fidelity point seventy-three.

In the end, though she couldn’t be sure,

She sat with confident glee.

Farmer Fred slowed to his feet,

Considered aged and wise.

Tears edged his sleepy face, they saw,

Tears trimmed his tired eyes.

“He dropped by the farm, a week and a day,

Inquired on sowing and reaping.

I’m certain this was the crux of his thoughts,

On seventy-three his speaking.”

He retired weary to his bench,

Lily Lawyer took her stead.

“I’m sorry Fred, I disagree,

In defense of Pastor Ned.”

“All lawyers know as evidence goes,

You save the best till last.

Then you knock’em down with a crucial blow,

Giving them no chance.”

“‘Lily,’ he warned, ‘be mindful of

The sin of cupidity.’

So I gave half my wealth away.”

She beamed then took her seat.

Then Patty Proctor stood, then leaned

Eyes blazing through the crowd,

Her puritanic spirit blazed

Reflecting Salem’s trials.

“I easily saw the blacken’d veil,

That hid Pastor Ned’s heart.

It’s true he was a holy man,

That only but in part.”

“Alas there was some grievous sin,

That gave him no relief.

The point at hand was a confession,

Confession point seventy-three.”

One after one till all had spoke,

Their thoughts on point seventy-three.

But no one really knew for sure,

Hindered by their sleep.

Yet most important one was left,

Who could unveil the secret.

Ned’s dear wife aged seventy-three,

Closest to him in spirit.

All were still, till the preacher’s wife,

Still wiping sleep from her eyes,

Tottered to her feet and tried,

To recall his words to the wise.

She he-ed and hawed, stuttered and chewed,

Clearing her throat once more,

And finally said “I have no clue”

Then sat and said no more.

Alas the congregation grieved,

They knew no rest or peace.

If she didn’t know, then no one knew,

The words of point seventy-three.

The moral of this tale is clear,

Do not rest or sleep.

For you never know when you may hear,

The words of point seventy-three.