In the Corner, the Syrup is Just as Sweet

I've sit next to a chain- smoking Jesus,
in the white-washed, plain
café. "No one will believe us,"

he reminds me, and smothers blueberry
pancakes in Smuckers
grape jam and an ounce of sherry.

"No one believes us anymore," smoke rings
curling around fussed
coffee steam, half and half, which brings

me to think that Jesus has a problem.
"There are at least three
types of people in this broken

world," he tells me. "Those who do, those who don't,
and those of who chose
to disappear in the crowded won't.

Okay, it ain't perfect, but it's a start,
and I'm beyond sure
that you may be my only friend, part

man, part God." I told him he must have me
confused for some old
someone else, but he smiled broadly,

lit another cigarette from the burnt
char of the last big
drag. "Thanks for coming. I hope you learnt

something today. Maybe next week we'll see
you again. I'm way
too old to start writing in free

time into my schedule. But, I like this
pathway you've been led
down and I sure don't want to miss

the next step you'll take." He stood, shook my hand,
and left, his feet making
footprints (away from the bill) in the sand.

I'd be back next week. I had little choice.
While I may act meek,
the world would be mine, and Jesus
had to settle up.

-JR Simmang


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