Winn Dixie's Gethsemane

I toss as I sleep
like a visitor unwelcome,
haunted by the image
of the man who didn't eat.

The man whose hair was matted
his finger nails dirt filled
With neck deep stained by blood spilled
poorly hid by an unseasoned jacket.

The cashier said, "I'm sorry sir
this credit card won't pass.
The picture is to much defaced
and we can't take that here."

He possessed his grocery bags
like a child to an early mother.
One could feel his hunger pangs
as he surrendered each one over

"Run home; grab your check book sir."
He nodded hesitatingly;
exiting encumbered
by lost hope and false identity.

I wanted to scream my confession.
I'VE GOT THE EXACT SAME PROBLEM SIR!
But instead guarded my wallet
and the cheap grace I keep hidden there.

I kissed him on the cheek,
betraying my own flesh my blood.
Now thirty dollars tie a noose
and overhang my bed.