What Jesus said

What Jesus said to me at the beach kiosk

when I was queueing to buy an ice-cream for my kids,

jingling the change in my pocket,

grumbling inwardly at the price of two scoops

these days,

 

the little one standing on my feet for lift

enough to search for rainbow

among the tubs of dreamy creamy strawberry swirl,

fantasy late night chocolate cherry delight,

the eldest

 

caught in a forwards-backwards stance

between childhood and adolescence,

her sister using me as cover

for a guerrilla game of jab and niggle,

my wife

 

with eyes signing a conspiracy

of beer garden chips and drinks,

what he said, where I didn’t expect to find him

pushing late afternoon clouds aside

his voice

 

riding the put-put of a fishing boat,

what he said was shit, man, fuck,

I don’t even exist,

a whole fucking quarry of digging less real

than this

 

I am

and vanished,

his presence thinner than the wafer on the faulty cones

lifted by the gritty hot wind

to nowhere.

 

 

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