I found a statue of Christ amidst detritus
of a burned-out bar on High Street.
The Savior scorched to a cinder:
the state of faith in America.
I crossed myself and stowed
the King of Kings
in folds of my old windbreaker
(buried beneath the hardened exterior
I've projected to protect myself
from the tyranny of evil men)
to spare him the indignity
of further exposure to the elements on
our exodus through these city streets:
a trifling attempt at reciprocity.