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
mounted on that slab of bargain store
wood, staring at me as I’m passing
through the knick knacks section
of Family Dollar—