Doubting

Thomas Aquinas
peered out from dark glasses
at his descendant.

“You must have a thousand questions,” he said.

Harold smiled.
“Not I,” he said,
“though I have many waiting
in the back room.”

And he led
us through a grating
in the gloom
to a narrow door once painted red
but now scuffed and peeling
where a flock of notecards
launched into the air.

“Pick one,” he said,
and Thomas Aquinas caught the nearest,
a blue one scented with violets
and laughed.
“Like a duck out of razors.”