I knew this page of scripture well,
had copied it many times before,
but Father Midone was over my shoulder,
so it felt like twice the chore

for Father Midone seemed never pleased
by any page I had copied yet
and though he did not often speak,
Father would grab me by the neck

Midone’s finger would then point
at a tiny smudge upon the page
and I would drop my quill, humilated,
and begin to fill with rage

for I was born left-handed,
a fact I could not change,
and if a smudge did sometimes occur,
should Father act insane?

I picked up up my quill, started again,
for the page was nearly done,
then the bell announced dinner was near,
and I smudged it, just for fun

I took that page of parchment,
still wet with carbon ink,
and laid it on Midone’s chair,
hoping he would sit to pray or think

then sit, he did, oblivious,
absorbing every drop,
and as the ink dried on his ass,
he became the true dalcop