This captures an experience I had in the early Spring. Someone left a rosary on my gas pump when I went in to get a Coke. It might’ve been there before I left, but I didn’t notice it until I got back. It really stuck with me. I dedicated several pages of journal space to it, crafted a rough poem, then whittled away until I found the heart.
Ziploc’d Messiah
The pixelated display blinks:
$4.75 for unleaded.
There is no God in this economy.
Dank, iridescent curb water swirls around my naked ankles.
The dripping nozzle clatters home with a defiant click.
I cast a sideways glance at the total through rain-fogged lenses,
but find salvation within the bowels of a crumpled Ziploc.
A relic—red, white, and laced within the Lord’s prayer.
Folded one too many times.
The messiah in his transparent tomb.
Sealed away with no stone to roll.
And no air to breathe.
