I am where Christ is: dead at 33
And sleeping on the left side of the bed.
Christ was a leftie, don’t let them tell you otherwise.
He pitched to saints and caught left-handed
With a moldy shroud of a mitt. Pitched to
Theresa of Avila who hit a homerun before
Without godly permission.
Christ was good like that even hiring serial killers
Behind bars to spread his word like Dahmer
Who preached until he was bludgeoned to death.
More people came to the games of saintly homerun sluggers.
Even with dangerous thunderstorms I have souvenirs
In my room of these games. St. Anthony on one card,
Patron saint of the married, strewn on my bed.
Lazarus resurrecting the already dead.
Occasionally, I try to score a trade in my club
For the Jesus baseball cards.
Yet find most fellow Catholics the stingiest folk,
Dante’s hoarders and wasters
Scoffing at my generous christian offerings
As if a poor box of tithes.