Jesus is Coming

The tapping of the shower is 
the insistent brush of reeds 
along the Charles and the slap 
of oars I’ve just left. 
Give me a neck, chocolate 
silk, to greet or give away to 
another row of muddy shoes. 
A hotter shower prevents my 
cutting later on. I’ve never 
called to crews through a 
megaphone but have 
set a rhythm by simply standing 
with a yellow bike against a birch.
I’ve beckoned with my eyes, 
my stance, my breathing—a dance
with no steps, chanting without 
words, urgent, as the winter’s 
coming, plaintive as I’ve been 
alone three decades. I’m hungry 
for first contact, am grateful when
it’s done. The boats are hauled 
up the ramp, I dry off on linoleum.
I speak to a wall of photos and to 
a rock which announces Christ’s 
return. I speak with my helmet, 
anxious for tomorrow’s ride.