From across the fence
you ask for it:
twenty cents,
you say you need,
     for the bus
          or the gas bill
               (whichever arrives first)
as you water your sharp, green grass
     straighten up your JESUS sign,
          wipe the spider webs
               from your concrete goose’s head.
I’m sorry, I say,
I can’t offer you anything
except what you’ve already got:
     the words of the Savior,
          and his various disciples,
               some dead,
                    some still living.

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