The man in front of me
is holding a tomato slice
like my childhood priest
held the broken Eucharist.
Somewhat papal with his
short hair and pock-marked face
I am drawn to line up
in front of him, open my
mouth for a transubstantiated
pickle chip, take a holy
swig from his chai tea,
confess to him my fabricated
sins, then walk away,
terrified, ashamed, and still
hungry.
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