Classic Poem

He's ambassador and bishop of the twisted backbone,
Crazed as antique crockery, he's a bird-bud,
A flower-fledgling, a mum mediator between
This world and a miracle, swollen at their thoracic battlefront.

Hugging, so to speak, his own hump, he gusts
Across the apocryphal steppe of some Scyth-written Bible,
And maybe in that book he bends stoop-backed
Like a hawk-beaked Judith over Holofernes' head.

Embracing his treasure-chest backpack of a hump,
Pursued by breast-thumping zealots who would exclude him,
Already he arrives, as foretold: one-bag postman who
In their two-humped desert dreams alone in his room.