Jesus stands on rooftops
telling kids to tie their shoes
but they’re busy sewing patches
with strings of sturdy blues
and in a matchbox
in a mailbox
lies her cross on a chain
with the dust in the air
caught by too-late rain
for destiny’s a recycle bin
and death a dirty lane
and the sky is all unfinished thoughts
and hope, a weather vane
and in a locked box
in a fire box
lies her life without chains
with creosote scented air
that smells like city rain
while the past closes its oak drawer
and hate drops its blind man’s cane
there is a madly spinning storm
and hope
a fallen weather vane.