I think he’s Listening —
there’s a noise in the opposite room,
I lie awake and
wait for the screams to stop,
wait for the morning and
watch Her smile across the table
a new purplish hue across her cheek,
wait to listen to Her ask what I want for
breakfast.

I think he’s listening —
I pass the familiar alley and meet
the same young face
sullen, skin and bones
(a modern day nomad who hunts
for scraps and loose change)
the same young face
with a strange superpower: he averts the
eyes of others at will
— or without?

I think he’s listening —
a well-practiced smile on His lips
and He breathes, spewing
the most beautiful web of promises
(lies)
and the people, oh the people
desperate for
something
trust Him, in a heartbeat,
anoint Him the Crown,
never stopped to wonder: who loots their riches in the night?

“I think he’s listening,” She says,
and next to her, I stand
staring ahead, across the white sheet
at his face
and I nod, I agree
but will he ever answer?