Dressed up, sealed in, the world excluded, Princes of the Church, secluded; I suppose they sit in chapel arguing who's fit to grapple with corruption, who can handle uppity women, priestly scandal; but God knows how they'll really pick a Pope to follow Benedict. Spin the chalice, pass the dalmatic musical statues, hunt the relic, pin the tail on the priceless fresco, all-in combat roller-disco? Or maybe they'll decide it's better to go for the chap with the biggest biretta. Eventually, they'll pick some bloke and never let on what they smoke.
© Gwen SeabourneHebog Tramor is a Professor at a UK University, researching medieval legal history and writing the odd poem.