Searching For My Savior
I lost my savior. He
turned red cellophane, slipped into the
and left no forwarding address.
A layman works two floors above
me examining old
for ancient rituals.
His name is Jake.
We get along well, and one morning I
bought him a cup of coffee
he didn’t answer his door.
On my desk is a note my savior left
to watch for a mariachi band.
So I drove to Springfield to look
around but only found
a lady on Fourth
who was waiting on the field harvest
to come in.
She told me there were no mariachi bands
and to try my luck in Union City.
Being low on gas
and interest in general
I went home.
Watching a ball game in the dark,
a broadcast from Cincinnati,
an idea came to me
that the answer to my savior may be in one of Jake’s books.
There was a silent drizzle
brilliantly outside as I climbed the stairs
and, though he was not home at the time, there was
taped to the unlocked door
telling me to go in.
I worked tirelessly, continually, without
food or drink
through the night and the following two
dreary days, pouring through the books and the
in Jake’s library, turning endlessly through crackling,
musky smelling pages
of arcane writings and drawings for any
clue to the whereabouts
of my savior,
or any reference to mariachi bands,
until the sun broke red through the window
on the third morning
and the futility and my folly were
Jake came in and we went to his kitchen
and drank coffee and ate fried eggs
with dry buttered toast.
He smiled grimly, deep-set eye sockets
shadowing his pupils.
“The books only show a sleeping savior,”
I said to him.
“But nothing else.”
“What did you expect?” he replied
in a flat
“Love is purchased on credit. And in time
the angels come