Dust on tables. Television screens need to be wiped. Dead flowers left on the floor. Wilted, shriveled up. The carpet hasnt been vacuumed in years. Various spots on it. Blood stains from cuts. A dark blob in front of the bathroom door. His wrists black and blue. Stitch marks, going up veins. He sits on the floor Indian style and rocks back and forth. Laughing out loud to himself. Mumbling incoherently. Talking about some kind of doomsday. He dreams of it at night time and fears it during the day. The old man often yells out, where are you now God? My father, why have you forsaken me?

As a young man, people would cast stones at him. Throwing rocks at his head and body as he went through town carrying a cross made of metal. It was an old TV antenae he’d found in the junk yard. He yelled out, the end is soon. Repent you sinners. Have faith in the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. A petite black whore from the mission would wash his feet and perfume them with bottles of Polo cologne. Anything she found on sale at the local Walmart. She wiped his tears with paper towels.

The gangs of Chicago had it with him. Said he was a fake. A fraud. Told the people of 95th Street that his days were numbered. Mocked him. Told him, if you are the son of God, then turn this water from the river into wine. He could not. There were no miracles that he could perform. Just talk. That’s all he did was talk.

And so they locked him away in a room above a liquor store over by Austin. That’s when he went really crazy. That’s when the cutting began. The whore would never lose faith in him. She tended to his needs until she died. Mary was her name. She did as she was asked. A true servant.

This old man has not ascended to Heaven yet. He still cries out for the sins of mankind. This old crazy man. This old crazy man. He waits to be called.