Jehovah’s Witness at the Door

A young slender evangelist came to my door
with caramel skin and cocoa-colored hair:
the frame around her cherry-glossed smile.
Hazelnut eyes portrayed beatific reflections
I followed a stranded sailor toward spotted shore.

She shared a verse from 2nd Timothy barely heard
through the agony of unkempt ruffles of hair,
cakes of crust around bloodshot half-dead eyes,
a pair of pajama pants fashioned with a Scooby Doo shirt,
and a stench of fish that permeates the porch
(doubtful last night’s cologne could eclipse it).

Perhaps a smile could pierce the layers of dust,
persuade her to polish me until I shine once more.
A smile wide enough for dimples, reserved enough
to conceal stray bagel morsels eaten moments before.
I breathed in the visage as long as polite
with the obligatory glance to her protege:
a larger boy with frightened eyes and a nervous smile.
How I envied him! How I dreamt to follow her
across the neighborhood, gluttonously lap
the sight of her hips hugged by the burgundy skirt
plot the steps to strip her out of jacket and blouse,
devour the dollops of coffee ice cream beneath,
discover the epicenter and dig to unearth the elixir.
She would teach me to preach; I would teach her to purr.

She handed me a magazine with a promise to return
in the near future. I slid back into the house
and thanked the Lord for a second chance to see her,
this time showered, primped, and transfigured.

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