“There ain’t no preachers/b*tches in this park no more!”

yells the man walking through the park, though the man

I’ve just met while cruising & I can’t decide which group

he is actually screaming about, the plosives striking the snails

of our inner eardrums discordantly. We agree both answers

are simultaneously true when the man follows up with a “hallelujah!”

as he rummages through the park’s bins for plastics.

He’s so right, of course; there’s so little of God in this park,

so little of the shame I have carried most of my youth,

just a nigga on his knees with a dick in his mouth while another

stays wary of strangers stumbling through the night’s taut silence. 

Grandson of a preacher, so often I know better,

but tonight I don’t want to care. A man looks at me with wanting

and I’m god enough to grant it. Forgive me, Lord,

I know what I’ve done. We can talk about it later.