Man from California Jesus watches us from the wall wearing his crown of thorns oddly light-haired and blue-eyed like a man from California. Indistinguishable droplets – blood or sweat, who knows? – adorn his brow, while outside a tearful sky tied down with power lines merges into a tepid sea. We're living in the car, these kids are hungry! our mother cries as we perch among cabbage roses here in hope's bungalow – Till a voice on the television, blaring in another room, finds us out. Today is the anniversary of my son's death, taken serving his country, the voice intones – all mixed up with another voice, I'll see nobody now. You never would, our mother mutters, as we troop past Jesus noncommittal on the wall his face preternaturally calm. I'd like to think his eyes must follow where we're going – but the man from California might not have that much energy. Sliding away on rain-slick streets, a mysterious horn warns at every intersection: has it some Zen meaning? If not for our passing here would judgment horns still sound? Homeless Jesus (as I've imagined him) might know...I doubt the question would occur to the man from California. © 2007 by Beth Stevens