here he comes,
the conquering whatever. a forgotten
name. 'Problem'
is what he goes by now
skirting contact, skating past young and old
alike as if they were the same. generations
ago he'd be stoned or hanged or run out of
town on account of his perceived skullduggery.
presently, he loiters. whose hands he works
with, there is no telling, but he appears idle.
foster or real, he's got no parents he knows of
and the state seems equally ignorant.
and yes, god, aren't we just full of him. and her.
and them. who cares? not you. nor the people
you bandy with at work or the dinner
table or the church lobby--or perhaps outside the church,
or mosque, or temple. none care.
the messiah would, I assume,
were he real. but the time for revelation seems gone
and past. no sheep or goats. just us goddamned humans.