Jesus had it going on for a good couple of years,
like Billy Collins—followers who said mmm when
he hit them with a perfect image, event attendees
who snapped their fingers and played bongos,
who caught him up when he took the leap of faith,
held him over head, passing him person to person
like something viral, a Best of the Net poem. Never
did they let him fall. And just like Collins they
wanted to touch him, be near when he left the stage
for dinner and drinks at the after-hours hang with
like-minded locals. Jesus toured a solid year, playing
small venues (hilltop, outside town, tonight!),
growing his base, hustling, honing his cadence,
tightening his timing, before hitting it big, always
performing the same material but changed it up
gig to gig, tweaks to make it new, keep his own
interest, working out other angles on love. At first,
reviews were few but his reputation grew and by
what accounts remain he killed, he slayed—
seekers arrived early and stayed late. Oh sure,
some nights they threw stones or soldiers cleared
the olive grove. Even Billy wrote a stinker or two.
For Jesus, parables were the glue for the whole
show—without them he was just another weirdo
standing in a river with a ragtag entourage. But
there was no doubt—the man was on to something,
all au courant—all these feeling you didn’t know
you already knew and had never told a soul.
Jeff McRae is an employment specialist working with disabled youth. He earned an MFA in Poetry from Washington University, St. Louis and an MA in Writing from the University of New Hampshire. New poems appear or are forthcoming in Hiram Poetry Review, Antiphony, Rattle, A-Minor Magazine, One Art, Cider Press Review, and elsewhere.
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