Every morning I see Jesus
just standing there, arms forever
outstretched, in some sort of Jesus Christ pose,
with arms wide open, laconic.
He must be a tough guy, and he
must have been that way for quite a while,
the paint on his robe is cracked and peeling,
his jaw is faded; he can barely seek
refuge in half a bathtub these days.
He’s blessing a yard that’s seen better days
on a street corner that’s also seen better days.
He doesn’t seem to mind. At least, he never
says so. He just quietly watches over
his sheep. They must have run away though,
it’s pretty obvious they haven’t been
eating any grass lately. There might have been
flowers there too, one can’t really tell anymore.
Even goats would help this poor guy out.
But I don’t say anything. Every once
in a while it looks like some tractor comes
around and hacks down the lawn to a
reasonable length, ankle length, at least,
and then it must run away. And maybe
some unknown shovel-wielding robot
comes around every now and again
just to clear up the cracks in the pavement.
Jesus must secretly like them. Jesus
and his machines. Again, he does it
secretly. Jesus likes people to think
it’s just him and his unkempt lawn. Jesus
doesn’t like people to know that someone’s
actually watching out for him…that someone
out there cares. Jesus plays it off tough,
like his weary arms could hack down that grass,
but he always appreciates the rest.
I like this guy, Jesus; I feel like he’s
watching out for me watching others
watch out for him. He lives a cold and
lonely life, but he never gives up.
He’s got his half-bathtub and his robots
and his tough-guy image and his lawn is OK.
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