The Goolabong man is real and waits under the overpass

of I-70 and State Highway 178. He wears his heart on his

proverbial sleeve and slurps mildewed coffee from weathered

Starbucks cups that he finds on the ground next to used condoms,

wads of Kleenex, and empty ketchup packs.

I have offered up fresh lamb for him to eat.  He prefers it

cooked medium well-done with a side of mashed English peas

and mint.  Once he stole my sister’s bicycle and covered it

with plastic bags from the handlebars all the way down to the

rear fender. When he rode it, the plastic bags ballooned with

cool air and lifted him up off of the ground.

He longs to be proud of his heritage but hasn’t any

paperwork to validate his claims. No DNA testing, or black Bibles

with family trees etched in waxy red pencils of who begat whom;

no word-of-mouth stories to help prove his existence; that he frightens

the stew out of every single living thing in which he comes in contact.

You cannot touch the Goolabong man, or kiss him if you wanted.

He is too elusive for that sort of trivial behavior. You can never see

him if you don’t believe, and if you don’t believe, then how can you

think for a minute that there is a god?

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