Disciple

Red-eyed, black-shod,
stinking like
an unclean kitchen hood.

Comes slinking up
the side road, shouting
stuff about Jesus.

He knows Jesus personally
and Jesus would dig deep for him
into his pockets except

that robe don’t got pockets.
He’s got disciples to carry
his stuff.

Ask a disciple
how it works. Any disciple 
knows what to do.

He’s got that West Side Swagger.
He’s got that Sunshine Energy.
He’s got that late night last night stagger.

He’s got that strapped for cash
but feeling all right air of a man
who knows dead doesn’t last long

even if it takes him mid-sentence.
He’s out here every day.
You ever see him dead?

He’s got that downtown rhythm.
He’s got that boondocks 
knows-enough-to-get-by stare.

He says he looks
just like his dad.
He’d show you a picture

but he doesn’t have it
on him right now. 
He doesn’t trust himself

to carry it.  
It’s back
at the spot. 

Asks you for a quarter.
Says you are blessed
when you hand it over.

He isn’t going anywhere.
Even if he dies tomorrow
he’ll be back soon enough.