Businessman in a clot-red shirt
sprawls in a banquette at the airport bar,
tells his buddy about a wine
he drank last trip,
grapes from a vine
watered by a tear
leaked from the eye of Christ.
So I got that going for me, which is nice.
Smirks his lips in memory.
Look at these monkeys in suits and skirts,
pressed and polished uniforms!
Past the bar the pilots move as one,
gliding past security gates.
If He was one of us a while,
a naked ape trussed up in robes,
then he was bound
to climb back up that tree.
The president onscreen behind the bar,
believes in Him, believes, too,
in the art of the tithe.
grunts cast onto the plate,
Arkansas and Detroit boys
shined up bright and chucked in hard
so God can hear them scatter,
the generous clatter of the prodigal son.
But he don’t drink no more,
no matter how straight the wine comes
from those sad puppy-dog eyes,
so if you want to share this red,
take a sponge and soak it well
to wet the pilot’s lips—
He needs the drink.
He’s the one who has to keep
flying back and forth,
the Rockies in the middle
like the seam over a jury-rigged heart,
great metered fields of corn and soy,
clapboard houses where women still
pin empty shirts to a line
and make the kids
hold hands to say the evening’s grace.
To read more of M. C. Allan’s poetry go to www.depoetry.com/poets/200712/allanmc.html.