my hour
by Thom M. Shuman
i wish to see
Jesus
in the panhandler
on the street:
but
the stained, tattered clothes,
the unkempt hair,
the acridness clustered
around him
cloud my eyes;
i wish to hear
Jesus
in the politicians
whose decisions i cannot
support,
in the evangelist
mouthing platitudes to the
pain-full,
in the talk-show callers
spewing hateful bile,
but all these words
clog my ears;
i wish to meet
Jesus
in the tattoed skateboarder
riding the rails
down at the school,
in the hip-hopper
jamming at the
bus stop,
in the goths
hanging outside the
arcade,
but too quickly
i cross the street
searching for my
twins.
Jesus,
why would you wish
to see
to hear
to meet
me?
i wish to see
Jesus
in the panhandler
on the street:
but
the stained, tattered clothes,
the unkempt hair,
the acridness clustered
around him
cloud my eyes;
i wish to hear
Jesus
in the politicians
whose decisions i cannot
support,
in the evangelist
mouthing platitudes to the
pain-full,
in the talk-show callers
spewing hateful bile,
but all these words
clog my ears;
i wish to meet
Jesus
in the tattoed skateboarder
riding the rails
down at the school,
in the hip-hopper
jamming at the
bus stop,
in the goths
hanging outside the
arcade,
but too quickly
i cross the street
searching for my
twins.
Jesus,
why would you wish
to see
to hear
to meet
me?
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