In the coffee shop that looks like a treehouse,

a brown-bearded man in a musty maroon sweater

darkens the doorway, to introduce himself.

“I am Jesus Christ, American citizen,” He hollers.

I shake. I find him

tragic and beautiful and petrifying.

Jesus Christ sidles over to the splintered shelves

and grabs a collection of Plath’s poetry.

“Read a fucking book,” he murmurs.

Jesus Christ is giving us wise advice.

He slinks to the corner and leans against the wall, brooding over his book.

Some spiffed up guy with a sneer on his face tells Jesus Christ to get a job,

and Jesus Christ stares back at this modern Judas with pain in his eyes.

Jesus hangs his head.

I bow my head in prayer.

Oh Father, why have we forsaken him?