A Living

A scribble, a pat on the back—and no more

Itches. I should have been a doctor. Better,

A preacher, a man who calls men to lift

Hands in surrender disguised as praise.

Everyone loves Jesus. He saves. He’s

A healer. I lose when my man is right:

I cannot pay an electric bill, mine or his,

One of us sick, the other sicker, neither

Knowing how to sew or salve a wound, only

How precise the sound of him punctured.