by Peter Blum
I have a small and secret desire, well-hid.
Secret from whom, you ask?
Secret from me, I suspect,
Or maybe I am a suspect, secretly,
This is the week to bring a secret forth
Not by telling, no “big reveal”
But quietly, like the secret itself
Into the ashes of Wednesday morning.
Ashes of palms once waved aloft with lauds
Thrown beneath humility’s hooves
Shat upon by the donkey, perhaps
As I shall soon be shouting “Crucify!”