jack mendoza, bible salesman, widower, fifty-seven years old,
never learned to play the violin.
no one knows if the sky would come crashing down
on us if he ever took that ten-gallon hat off, but
lord knows we’re not about to ask him.
in this infernal town men melt like blocks of ice.
and you with your black suit and bow tie—jack,
are you on your way to a funeral? could it be your own?
you don’t sweat any more, jack. if you keep
this up you’ll turn into a cactus.
ding-dong, ding-dong.
jack mendoza sells bibles
in a land where everybody’s already got one.
