Mud in His Hair

Mud in His Hair

("Learn to do right. See that justice is done—help those who are oppressed, give orphans their rights, and defend widows.” Isaiah 1:17)

You preferred he sleep with mud in his hair.
You preferred outrage at a man who slept in the shed
because the pastor thought it was better than shivering in the rain.

You stretch walls to the sky to keep out infestations,
slick-dirt children and mothers with desperate and
hollow eyes. You call poverty an invasion,
refugees criminals and serial adulterers saints.
You kiss your flags in pagan idolatry and expect an
Amen
at the end of your national anthem.

You expect a throne, a crown, barbed wire and cages;
you bow before liars, stand inspired before hitmen with tongues
like asps. You never tire of banquets to honor
the alternative facts
you've chosen to spoon feed to
your progeny; tiny birds unfeathered in nested bubbles.

Toss a roll of paper towel
to the man with mud in his hair.
Give him an orange on your way to
Starbucks. Deny him a night without rain and
complain that the pastor
let him sleep on the concrete again.

Maintain your buildings, guard your doors,
and you can transfer all the blame to every
sluggard who sleeps in the rain.