He Wore Socks

He wore socks
i said
my feeble voice
trembling
as subconsciously
my freshly crisped fingers
brushed up against
my charred, meek mouth
He wore socks
as if that explained 
anything
but in my mind
it did
the detail seared
into my marrow
like a thorn
the news anchor was
setting up
clearing his throat
and passing from
foot to foot
in place
in front of 
the coffee shop
that was now
in fact
just black bare bones
i had heard him
ask the leading questions 
in prep
for the interview with the cafe owner
they were conjuring up
a suspect
on nothing more than
prejudicial speculation
the Homeless man
with dreadlocks
and an iPhone
who laughed to Himself
while reading Jung
sipped coffee
and knew the barista’s name
and tried to help me
wave down my Chai
and whose whole of 
earthly possessions were 
seated to the right 
of His sagging, brown couch thrown
a tall, smelly pile
His own “son of god”
He, whose skin was golden brown
and more creased than modern
time would normally allow
He, who hummed “merrily”
content to sit, be warm
--this was their villain,
and why?
because He: patron non grata
surely looked to have less to lose
than any of the fine dressed
bathed and socially progressive
the housed combatants of civility
surely, surely these college girls
and boys, and work-day wanderers
these friday morning payday chums
who presented proper posturing
surely—none of these could be
hiding sinister objectives
of the blowing up kind
but, He wore socks, i said again
not even shoes for running
His whole home within
and here He was, at last
in warm content
from a bitter cold
—to blow it up?
that made no sense
not that blowings up ever did
but it just seemed to me
He was too easy, too innocent a target
to pin things on
too obvious a dunce 
for the farce of media propensity 
no, you’re wrong, i said
you see, He wore socks
He wore socks...