A Bat in the Monastery

We killed a bat last night
in our recreation room. Five priests
dropped their masks and newspapers, grasped
each a weapon— broom barrel magazine whatever—
and lunged and flailed the black intruder.
(Poor Luther, I thought.) He soared, swooped,
swept the room with vine wings, fluttering
a hum of terror while priests laughed and ducked
and tried to capture him. He settled
finally from exhaustion and despair,
waited on the wall behind the heavy drape.

Big Ned killed him.
With a broom he whaled the hell out of that bat
that never hurt a soul. Cheers were deafening.
A tiny thing, a dirty mouse with wings
crumpled now and scudded to the gutter
like an autumn leaf. Farewell, bat.

The party ended. We picked our way
back to our cells, isolate again, estranged.

Well, anyhow, we got that intruder.