Jesus Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Jesus tells me he hasn’t had any beers
Since he got back from Mexico- that being
Some four months, because he got into too
Much trouble in Mexico, muchas putas,
Mucho mota. Now he’s sober and working for
Mark, grande patron, and we’re setting up stakes
Here in South Florida, getting ready to make a
Buck celebrating Christmas; if there’s a buck to
Be made this year, we’ll be the ones who make it.
Now the sun is down, slipping over this flatbread
Peninsula, slipping, in fact all the way to Japan where
Strange little men are eating raw fish and doing
The well-paid secretaries doggy-style, And the exhuming
Night has squelched the humidity, and all the Mexicans
I worked with today are back in their apartments,
And the imperfect trailer parks where infants squeal and
Chase motherless kittens;
Even the new guy, Jorge; and I have more scars than
Any of them, except when looking into the blushing
East, and I might easily join the ironic train of homeless
Drunks who stink of fermentation and oral sex:
They come by, and they are almost all white, so white
And bearded I could call them cousins; and today at
McDonalds where I spend a two dollar bill on lunch,
A black couple sits across my line of sight, and looks at me
As if in challenge, waiting to see what my look in return
Will tell them about themselves. I want to tell them not
To look at me, but it is some sort of fun, because I look
Beautiful at their distance, so they could hardly know,
And we give furtive glances while the Mexicans chirp,
Not knowing what to say to each other; except that I know I
Love them from an impossible planet, and even now back
In their casas, the Mexicans are having sex with faithful
Mujers, who cooked tortillas and pollo all day long, sweating
And praying under the turquoise statue of the Virgin Mary,
Who kneels there weeping over such labors these housewives
Perform, just like the snowy angels and cherubs we take out
Of boxes to adorn our living rooms on Christmas.