Dollar Store Jesus

doesn’t judge  
like those old Baptist Church ladies  
when they learned my dad 
loved Grey Goose 
more than Sunday sermon. 
He doesn’t stop inviting us 
to church barbeques or 
Christmas cookie bake sales, but that’s okay. 
I never really liked the leathery hamburgers 
or oatmeal raisin hockey pucks anyway. 
He doesn’t judge 
when he sees someone 
with an EBT card—not like  
noses upturned, fingers locked tight 
around Mercedes-Benz key rings, 
fumbling with Coach purses. 
Dollar Store Jesus doesn’t judge. 
He just sits there, in all his 
gold-plated glory, 
mounted on that slab of bargain store  
wood, staring at me as I’m passing 
through the knick knacks section 
of Family Dollar— 
his silence  
bringing salvation.