Not singsung Je-sus saves, Je-sus saves. Not Res-cue the per-ish-ing, them sitting on their Sunday evening porches, thinking idly flitting thoughts about the drunken gambling fornicating potty-mouthed idolatry. No, that was then, the see-through lady caps and men in witness shirts and trembly alto tenor coming from the empty-lot loudspeakers down the street. All’s it was was mission folks in Steelton.1

No, now they’re going down the valley2 one by one, with their faces toward the setting of the sun, plenty saved, scrubbed in the blood, delivered, no god awful heat of hell. Flap sign along the street, aw. So frown their hardest possible, or put their thumb firm upside down and pump, or even open up the truck door, call the mean words out across the air, the traffic coming on and coming down the valley one by one. Open up the truck door, not just holler out the window.

Hold on honey, cardboard square and cardboard handle, the wind blasts ripping past. Not Prepare to meet thy God. Just Vote for so-and-so is all. Air the evil of it, air the wrong, or hold on, anyhow.




1Pennsylvania town, late 1950s

2Shenandoah, Virginia

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