It seemed not to matter, for he got in fine,
but too late for communion, to get in line.
Scurrying scared under cover of pews
right for the confessional’s door to lose
us big ones, his tail swept over my shoes.
He vanished, but we were hot on his trail
and found him behind the door by his tail,
cornered and frightened and beyond avail.
We shut the door, and he understood,
confession’s for sinners, not for the good,
so he scampered away into the wood.
A rat’s not unwelcome at Saint Philip Neri,
but rules are rules, come early, don’t tarry,
or you’ll have to confess to Jesus and Mary.
— Romanós
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