Jesus, This Morning

Jesus sits, at a table, in the coffee shop,

Across the street from a Wendy’s,

A latte at his elbow,

Sitting in a pale milky ring

On the table, beside his supple fingers,

Strong from gripping the handle of a hammer,

Pulling nails from his palms.

 

The Sunday paper has fallen, from the table,

Covering his feet and backpack,

Pages open to the crossword puzzle

He was working when it fell.

12 Down is “crucifix.”

He stopped, sipped his latte,

Before filling in the letters,

Then let the paper drop.

It is finished, the crossword,

He said, mostly to himself.

 

Other people enter the shop,

Buying coffee, sitting down.

One asks for the paper

And he bends to pick it up,

Then hands it to the man in uniform,

An officer in the Army Reserve,

Who looks at him with incurious eyes.

Thank you, he says, mostly to himself.

 

Jesus sits, and sips his latte,

Thinking forward to the afternoon,

Going through his list of Things to Do,

Then he rises, from the table,

And walks across the street

To Wendy’s.

It was raining before,

The bottoms of his sandals become damp

As he walks on top of the wet pavement.

He orders a mushroom melt with fries

And a chocolate shake.

 

He sits alone but not forsaken at a table,

Around him families in jeans, jogging shoes, and baseball caps,

Old couples with coupons for combo meals,

Their pensions safe in personal checking until month’s end.

When he’s finished, he throws away his trash

But saves the plastic spoon to recycle later on.

 

There are endless opportunities to restore his faith.

 

He has risen, from the table.

Shouldering his backpack, he leaves.

Three teenagers waving I Phones

Take his place.

 

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