They could have stepped straight out
of velveteen Last Suppers carpeting
a motel parking lot. They must have seen
a pack of sinners sipping brewskies
at the Spot. We were indeed:
drinkers and drunks, dealers and fighters, punks,
Earth-dogs and -mamas. (I knew
a cowboy who hid his blade in his boot;
a comatose boozer saved by an unknown hero,
and a tiny blonde bouncer with a heart of stone.)
Beer and shots straight up; and down
the stairs He came, bearded, blue-eyed,
grimly beatific, with His groupies –
Joseph, assorted saints, two Marys,
John the Baptist – all got up for Halloween
in terry cloth and summer sandals.
When He leaned His eight-foot cross
against the bar and asked Jose' for
"What's on tap?" even atheists shut up.