anticipating jesus



I met him for the first time in an

honest-to-god pool hall,

he came out of the cigarette smoke like Gabriel and took my hand. 

That place was filthy and full of fifteen year olds smoking for a quarter,

boys with scars around bright blue eyes,

girls with mean mashed mouths. 

I recently saw pictures of used-up teens in peeling dance halls

somewhere in eastern Europe

maybe Russia,

and I was looking, all of a sudden, back in time to those

humid Georgia nights, that

dingy clapboard building where

big groping hands found too young barely curves

and you found me and where for a minute one night I found god. 

We played pool and showed our boobs for booze and 

other stupid girl things that didn’t fit right with us and left

a film on our clean skin, a fuzz on our tongues. 

At least we didn’t want to look too hard at our own roots.