Sunday morning, a sign
west of St. Louis says JESUS
all uppercase the way
a traveling evangelist says it in three
syllables when he’s working
the crowd up to an altar
call. On one side of the road,
a towering promise
of adult entertainment
in a pleasure dome —
on the other a sign says
next exit eternal life.
The road is lined with lights
flashing a warning that
the whole place could go up in flames
if you’re not careful. And even though
you don’t need to be reminded
after a week of triple digit heat,
the marquee on a Baptist Church
assures you hell is real
and you remember
revivals where a pitchman
who said he worked for God
could beat the whole crowd down
into submission, turn them
at just the right moment
and close the deal,
and you think in the middle
of America you’re in the middle
of a damn tent meeting and you hope
Oklahoma is a little closer to heaven
but you’d bet your life the difference
from one coast to the other is
nowhere near three sigmas,
so you can’t call this a discovery yet.