Along High Street, the window in the white Cortina

right down, the air rushing in, my foot on the accelerator
beating time to the electric fizz of Johnny B. Goode, 


all evening my hand inside your jumper—what bliss!
Street lights flashing past like beacons of joy.
Everything went so well until you found Jesus. 


It never works after that. When you said,
if you ask Jesus into your life you’ll never miss
another green light, or wait for a parking space, 


I couldn't help myself. I said, 2000 years and all
it amounts to is traffic flow. And you gave me
that look and I knew: Eli, Eli, it is finished.