Anthology

Religion Over Chips and Dip

Brandon Barnes

 

You inform me over Mexican food,
on your monthly trip to visit,
right on time, first on the list,
you write your check—ten percent—
to that Bible-thumping, well dressed,
jet-transported, smooth-talking
preacher—because if you don’t,
then some god upstairs will
evacuate your bank account—cursing
you call it. You don’t know how,
but like the seed in the parable,
it will come sure enough.
But didn’t that Jewish itinerant preacher,
poor, self-proclaimed homeless man,
carpenter by trade, give,
expecting nothing back from DADDY?
keeping his charity a secret from himself—
the suited guy in a jet calls
it “a good investment,” writes a book on it.
I listen, inwardly objecting,
wanting to tell you something about my god
as I take another dip in the salsa,
trying not to let my left hand know
what my right hand is doing.