Something To Wear

Triple X shirt, shoes bigger than Nikes worn
by pro-ball players, a muscle man struts
into the shelter.  Freed from dank cell,
the convict said, “I won’t leave this place
until I find my wife,” and the word came
his wife didn’t want to be found.

Clothes trucked from Connecticut
fit like sausage skin.  Donated weights
under the one tree in the parking lot pumped
his rage.  One-hundred-degree humidity,
clothes sopping, he paced the rim
of the indoor coliseum like a god
applauding lions before their kill.

Each day, white girl in red vest, I asked,
“Is there anything I can get you?”
Each day he said, “Get me my wife,”
but one day it was, “Get me a CD player.”
And when I did, his head crowned
with ear phones, he was a singing king,
sweat dripping from his lips.

That evening we got him the PA system, and he
sang praise, “Jesus,” he sang, “Jesus” and the thousands
in the coliseum rose to their feet, they sang, “Jesus”
in harmony, they said, “Sing it, baby,” they said, “Amen,”
and the big man cried into the microphone, “Jesus” so bleak and
“Jesus” so sweet all of us believed we were clothed just right.