On the Wall of Every Good American

is a painting of Jesus.
Whether above the bed of mother and father
or watching every meal in the kitchen.
Little Timmy glances at his face everyday
on the way out the door to school
and Mary Anne notices his eyes watching
her fingers run across the ivory piano keys.
In some paintings he’s white,
in others being crucified
while the Terminator echoes
through the five bedroom house.
He’s even hanging
from the rear view mirror of the Escalade,
a small Jesus watching
when we hit the Volkswagen
and Aunt Sarah hit her head on the dash.
Sometimes he is under the food,
peeking out from behind the forest
of broccoli or the wall of steak,
envious of a full belly.

And his eyes do not move
but in your head,
And his hair is not cut,
And his smile does not show
but in your head,
And his sins do not resolve
but from his wrists,
And his image does not fade
when you grow
as a child with him everyday,
And I suppose he could be Elvis
but for the music,
And I suppose this could be Graceland
but for the rapture.