Don't let on.
Keep it dark.
Must cover up.
"Can't think what you mean."
"Never heard of him!"
"Don't know who you can possibly be talking about."
(He called me Peter,
but Simon's the name for this game.)
Yet listen!
Triple-predicted echoes sensitize
My numbed thought,
Triggering instant replay.
It was just as he said.
Ghastly recollections.
Did I really sleep, uncaring? Seize a violent weapon?
Become turncoat?
If only I could cut the scene,
and splice in an edited version! Sane.
Bitter tears deluge my proud crowing,
My false advertising,
unsubstantiated by dawn.
Just bleak misery.
I did not name the name.
But there did come the morn,
After a scoreless playback of an earlier fishing venture:
Three simple Christly commands
about feeding his sheep.
Beautiful gate.
Commands recalled.
Response resounds in healing imperative
"In the name of Jesus Christ . . . rise up and walk."
All then rejoicingly know the unsecret
When name was named,
Openly.
