is depending on two dollars
and a bummed cigarette.
he’s sunburnt, skin cracked open,
oily hair and a bleached t shirt.
he’s not bothering to smile anymore,
he’s ditched his sign by the lamp post.
the lord has nothing to say.
there is a direct line to heaven today
for the first person
who pulls over, opens the window,
and passes him a twenty.
or a bottle, or a joint, or hell
just a hand.
in the coal red afternoon
cars streak hot breath on my cheek
as i say
hey, how’s it going?
and he nods.
the world reorients itself
i hadn’t noticed it but
god is all over the city today,
she’s tracking up and down the BART train
asking for change,
she’s crying in the bathroom, waiting
for someone to notice she’s not ok,
he’s up against the side of the building
in pajamas and handcuffs.
the kingdom of god
is a dirty sidewalk full of needles
and the drug sick angels
lurching at the entrance of the bar
are his messengers.
my god was sleeping in front of the spired church
on that manicured corner
and now he’s smoking weed in the courtyard
while the faithful prepare bulletins
and light candles.
he’s coming in.