The Pope and Statues

The Pope and statues Confounded old age, I keep looking on a black screen, on a plateau of nothingness Except for the ridiculous idea, I ought to travel to Rome and see the statues I once wrote about, and perhaps meet the Pope, and we can talk about this and that. I must meet him now before the Vatican machinery brainwash him into a Pope wearing glorious robes, a person of empty rituals. If I get to meet him, he could dress up in a smart Italian suit, and we could go for a walk and look at the statues together. Drink beer and eat Brazilian sausages with Italian flare; tell him a secret so deep he may think me deluded. Dear brother Frances, your name is Erik, we are twins, shared the same womb, but I was kidnapped by the Roma people and grew up in poverty the underdog in our democratic world; and you are the bishop of Rome. There will be a stunned silence, either he accepts my story and embrace me or he calls the Swiss guards; whichever he will not forget me and the statues.