With your hands upon my head
Cold oil between calused fingers and the delicate skin of my scalp
The backs of my exposed knees on the matted chair cushioning raised gently above a hard, tempered plastic
A cool metal rod where I loop my ankle and click my vinyl heel
Slow, Rhythmic
Like your voice when you speak my name to God and ask Him to heal me
A 3 p.m. Sunbeam through muted glass that brings softness to your closed, serious eyes
You are tired. You drown loneliness in Hard Work.
The lines under and around your eyes betray you
A portrait of White Jesus with his attractivelty trimmed beard and pressed robes
Among throngs of clean shaven, classically beautiful angels
Holds his hands out to us.
No wonder we conflate beauty and virtue as being one- and the same.
The other man leaves the room. You are hungry when we hug
Therefore, nevertheless I am hungrier still
As much as I would like my cheek to remain against your pilly sweater vest
We must go step into the fog before us
Letting light illuminate only what is right in front of us
Taking what we got from The Tree into a dirty California dusk.
Savanna 