Jesus came back yesterday.
No, not the second coming,
more of a ‘just a pop in the head at the door,
and then I’ve got to run.’ (he was actually in jogging shorts)
He didn’t have Caviezel’s nose
or Clooney’s smile
or Farell’s agitated posture
or Penn’s mysterious brow
or Cruise’s eyes
or Pacino’s swagger
or Parsley’s rave and cant
or Osteen’s geniality.
I’m serious. You may not believe this but
he prefers his communion red and in wine (big surprise),
sports a blue bandanna exclusively to hold back hair from his face (did not see that one coming),
has memorized Everett Standa’s poems, all of them (really?),
and especially loves ‘I Speak For the Bush’
he maintains a weakness for fish (a give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, thing)
and believe it, he is #TeamJulieGichuru (said she’s to die for).
Yeah, he was really chatty, just put it out there,
like he wanted me to know he was much more
than Sunday morning’s wishy-washy anxieties.
And get this, he didn’t say anything
about the new Ipad or next year’s election or twitter.
Finally the conversation dragged,
he glanced at his watch (chinese asahi disco, nice)
and said ‘gotta run, pard.’
After he left (just took off jogging)
Said he was preparing for the StanChart marathon.
I felt dizzy to say the least, but strangely at ease.
He forgot his keys.