Straw Man

Cleric on the corner
scarecrow on a cross.

Tattered dry leaf Bible
a bound sheaf of husks
with passages lined, pages marked,
the spine at rest in his straw finger hand.

At lunch break
Yea, though they work in the valley of high rise shadow
the business casuals pass by, avert their eyes
caught in a culture of glamour and need.

The stitched mouth bursts
with the Sermon on the Mount,
Behold the fowl of the air:
for they sow not, nor do they reap;
for the heavenly Father feeds them.

Regardless, ravens rest on his outstretched arms
poke in the dumpster for shiny things,
steal corn for later.

Straw filled arms whip and flail,
raise the dust dry leaves,
only to swirl in bus fumes
collect in corners.

No one here believes,
not the bold, not the meek.