poem

 Messiah

A certain man appears in times of trouble. When all seems lost. When the first plumes of smoke escape from the peak of Vesuvius. When the launch codes have been stolen. When the oceans lap against the last slivers of land. He goes about his business as if there's nothing to worry about. He takes his bath in the evening with a drink and a cigar. Women gather round to listen as he reads from the works of Charles Simic before everyone drowns. Everyone takes comfort from his equipoise, his nonchalance, his Othellian voice. What they don’t know is that he was selected. He didn’t have to figure it out. He was told. His bravery will only ever be known by strangers. The ones who know him best have already absconded. As can’t be said enough, the situation was impossible. Half hearted explanations will have to suffice. There was actually never anything to be done. This man accepted his fate in such a way that became a model for others to follow. Every civilization needs one. We called ours a Christ and the rest was only one possible history. Right now our future Messiah is at the cleaners, picking up his shirts, then to market to get a wine pairing for dinner. He greets everyone with a smile. He tips well. He remembers names. He offers reassurance and validation. Yes, it’s ok to think you are someone worth loving. Yes you may have my parking space. Yes it’s your turn to go at the roundabout. Even this, a shallow, acquisitional civilization needs such a man. The accountants call it the currency of last resort. It isn’t the same as market value but the demand never wanes. We all know he will not abandon us. Like when dad gets home and checks the attic for the source of all that scratching. He’s here for the duration. He represents our final salvation.

5/11/25