POETRY
Pilgrim at the Big-Box Mart
A Poem
A listening presence in blue vest greets today’s two-thousandth guest
With obligatory suspicions.
No hallelujah-chorus sings for the entrance procession.
We’ve squeezed like growing pains into a new Semaglutide-injected budget,
Already too late to replace a dragging cart hoping to sell itself to one last john before being bounced out past last call
Into the grateful embrace of a prodigal castaway of the open air.
Taking pains to abstain from this week’s meat, we beg indulgences,
Our end-cap bounty — dented cans of Good-Value pasta rings revealed by 23andMe as a DNA relative of Wolfgang Puck,
And reduced-fat, soy-butter food product we’ll press between repackaged, gluten-free, communion bread directly into amen-mouths,
On sale with manufacturer’s coupons only in the app.
Just brush aside the clutter: this vehicle’s interior has been sanctified with air freshener shaped like an evergreen tree.
These sunburned seats: once you’ve slept here once, sweating into this month’s rent becomes a vocation.
Head rest held high in all-American pride,
Driven straight in, equidistant on either side, as God intended.
Does any part of the sacred remain once the temple has been razed?
Who knows now just where the humble church then stood.
Based on proximity from the street, I’d guess I was baptized somewhere near that cart return.
Every Sunday of my youth—perplexity, feeling time slipping, saved by grace — now encased in asphalt.
Perhaps what the Rev. Calle said is true: “God resides in the hearts of men.”
Still, our abiding vulnerabilities collect, awaiting the promise of a divine purchase.
