Ladies, I hate to be the one
to break it to you but
that motherfucker died
a long time ago and
he ain’t never coming back.

But the kindly Hispanic women
biding their time underground
would not listen, too busy
pedaling children’s storybook
pamphlets of doom
featuring the unsaved in muted
browns, whites & yellows
and apparent redemption for those
whose love of Jesus defies
good grammar, spelling
& punctuation.

It’s not disbelief makes me
wave the women off,
it’s the desperation behind
their eyes—
despite claims to the contrary
they’re still lost,
false hope crackling like so much
static on their polyester pantsuits,
cradling eternity between hallelujah
and gritted teeth.

Dear, dear ladies,
who among us has not looked
into the soul of the person sitting
next to us and thought:
I could rip your heart from its
ivory chamber, use it
as a doorstop, a paperweight,
the plug to the drain
called rapture.