I was deep in my hands
full of things I couldn’t bring
doing a twenty-minute walk of shame
while rain soaked through my clothes
you came up in a crooked black tie
yellow untucked shirt and black pants
claimed I looked like a man that Jesus
could help 
handed me one of your pamphlets
an easy how-to save your soul
with watered-down Bible lines
to make one feel special and cured
from the mental and emotional torment
living in the dark from God’s light

tired from navigating ten hours
of driving kids home from a trip
we broke ourselves on to make sure
that the kids would have memories
more than us just looking worn and tired
I tried my best to keep you at bay
but you kept talking and following
insisting that I needed the help of Jesus
worried over my immortal soul
grabbing at my shirt, bags, and pockets
a better man would have tried to tell you
about personal space and give your warning
a better man would have thought that you
might be fearing for your own soul
but I can’t be the hero every day

when I grabbed all of your pamphlets
flung them into the Lexington street
smelling of hot piss and gas
said that I hoped Jesus could help
find your
goddamn pamphlets
I didn’t feel sorry

hopefully, you learned
that you can’t beat someone down
with weak religious wording
held up with your thin spine 
that maybe none of us
need a single thing
that you or Jesus 
got to offer