your hearts and your pocketbooks

In the Cadillac he says, “Thank you, brother,” when the flame bruises the tip of his cigarette, and he lowers his eyes. The workman wipes the spunk from his hands on a white cotton rag. How do these men find him? Men with sunburnt necks and rough hairy hands, with filthy dungarees and souls crying out to be washed clean. Men with some secret wound on which Eli must only lay his hands to heal. When Eli Sunday climbs down onto the running board there is the scuff of engine oil on his white linen suit – white as the Lamb.