Come On My Body, Jesus. Photos By David J. Thompson

For My Sin

Two cops sat all night in the booth

next to the door of the crowded diner

we all went to after the bars closed

that last summer before college.

We walked straight and tall, past them

somehow, and I gave my friend

a little push in the back, whispered,

Move your ass, man, I’m starving.

Look, those people are getting up.

"Please Don't Go To Hell" photography by David J. Thompson

We slid into the booth by the window

without waiting for the table to be cleared.  

My friend said he had to pee like a racehorse,

told me  to get him a cheeseburger deluxe

and a Coke if the waitress came by. I sat there

looking around, hoping the one named Donna,

who sometimes sat on your lap when she took

your order,  was working our section, decided

to get the pancakes and a side of bacon.

"The Kingdom of Heaven Is At Hand" by David J. Thompson

I found myself staring at the plate in front of me –

a half-eaten order of French fries spotted with ketchup.

I thought for a few seconds, glanced around to check

if anyone was watching and I took one off the plate

and, still looking around, I stuck it quickly in my mouth,

chewed it slowly and gently like trying an exotic dish

for the first time. It was soft, thick and greasy, still

warm, and very delicious. When I swallowed I waited

to hear the voice of God, probably sounding a lot

like my mother, screaming at me for eating food

touched by some dirty stranger, braced myself

to become violently ill and vomit all over the table

for my sin. But nothing happened, nothing changed,

I saw only that the swirling world of the diner continued

uninterrupted, indifferent to my behavior, so, I ate

a fistful more, then slowly licked the salt off my fingers.

Come On My Body, Jesus by David J. Thompson