the bible salesman

the salesman,
weary, but still enthusiastic
and polite with his boxed
briefcase
full of bibles and holy water,
knocks on your door.
you tell him you already
have a bible,
but he insists,
not like this one,
can I come in.
he's selling God
how can you say no to
that.
before long you are
pouring him
a cup of coffee and telling
the dog to get off
his leg.
he doesn't mind.
you put a slice of pastry
on his plate,
a fork and knife.
he opens his brief case
and shows you the bible
as cecil b d'mille
pictured it, bold and glossy
with colors
nothing black and white.
he looks around
and asks if the missus
is home, you say no,
she hasn't been here for
awhile.
I see he says. well, makes
no difference you seem
like a religious man.
I am, you say, I am,
tossing a left red slip
lying on the chair
into the other room, but I
don't have much time.
how much for the bible
and a flask of holy water?
you both turn your head
to a voice coming from up
the stairs, honey, who's down
there, are you coming back
up. i'm lonely.
he points at a number on
a brochure. checks only
or cash he says. hold on you
tell him, let me get
my wallet.