In the bank of humanity where Jesus saves
you can see,
saved for posterity in the house known as charity
the tidal wave of poverty
cowering in penury,
never knowing their neighbour
never loving their labour
never showing affection just the pass book
of dissatisfaction
with the debits and credits for a life
of inaction and
who's in the queue for a loan?
who would comb through their fleas and
get down on their knees to scratch out existence,
to eke out subsistence on a level unknown?
To groan inwardly
to get down on one knee and propose
to suppose it's not you in the queue with
a ring in your nose,
suppose it's not Jesus that saves.