We sit like beggars at a Sunday morning Salvation Army service
holding on to every crumb and ignoring all the words,
bet Jesus would like a pizza and a cold beer,
and Jesus, I would love you more if I had one of each right now.
Singing to Jesus, not as hung over as I wish I was.
the poet, he’s my preacher, and when he stands to read,
I know I will be filled to overflowing.
basements and alleys and mermaids and angels
in the east river, pretty girls in short skirts first week on the street.
Needles and dealers and dying on dirty bathroom floors.
sitting at the old oak table in the kitchen
in the one unbroken chair
where an innocent morning light travels through
the grimy glass of an un-curtained window,
he sits and writes about all the people Jesus didn’t save tonight.
He reads them to us in his clean white shirt.
We sit and listen as the words pour out like crystal
clear champagne on our glass tabletops.