The Crypt

I sat on a folding chair in the crypt.

The stone columns had been wrapped

In linoleum paneling, and on it were taped

Hundreds of crayon colored drawings

Of horses, firemen, carrot-nosed men,

Suns, Christmas trees, and Coca-Cola

Santa Clauses etched ecstatically

And jaggedly by young exultant fists.

There was a sign that said no smoking,

Another that said no dogs,

And it was strange to know, then,

That once Charlemagne had kneeled there.