The Messenger

In the pulpit of a park bench 
His face is tightly clenched, thick with blood; 
His voice booms across the landscape  
As if enraged as he shouts 
His Word to a ragged audience 
Captured by hunger. 
He speaks of sin as if it were 
An intimate friend; he sells salvation 
(as seen on TV) 
Like a huckster 
Touting 
Brighter whites 
Or fresher breath 
Or rock-hard abs 
Or golden locks 
Free from split ends. 
We listen passively as we puff the stumps of recycled cigarettes.  
We are waiting for chicken and potatoes which he gives for the price of ears scorched by fifteen minutes of brimstone.  
After he feeds his multitude he shakes our numb hands, feeling good about himself.  
Then he packs his tables and dishes and bibles into  his red van and pulls away leaving us to another week of sin.  
As the van pulls onto the highway we crack our 40’s and await the next charity van, and as morning fades to evening, neither he nor we have taken one step closer to God.