tokens

He slips a gift box

from his pocket.

Remember these?

Under the cotton

is a string of metal fish;

I haven’t forgotten.

I’m casting over the dock

of a chair with paperclip

and pencil pole,

fishing for tokens

from Sunday School.

Sallman’s dishy sailor

in a red T-shirt,

with a big see-through Jesus

in a broken ship, points

in the direction of everlastingness,

till his bouncers show up

and throw me out,

for a full baptism in the street.

This time there's no coin

in the fish’s mouth.

willow, 2010

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