Jesus H. Christ
e were all rich fiends, stumbling drunk on State Street,
clothed in our Icebreaker shirts and worn jeans,
our expensive jackets. We took a man, one of the
homeless ones, and we dragged him to the Amtrak station,
burdened him with a railroad tie like a cross. We
marched him back through town, beating him with our
expensive leather belts, spitting on his gimcrack clothes,
tearing his beard from its root. We all cackled.
When he couldn't walk, we pushed him down the rest of the way,
took our cheap shots and ran laughing into the night.
It was all in good fun. He said he was the son of God.
He wasn't. No one cares anyway. That's not the way this works.