I find Him in Lawn and Garden
stacking forty-pound bags of topsoil
on a pallet marked DAMAGED.
He has lost weight.
The beard is regulation length.
His name tag says GARY
because management already had a God
and God was tired of explaining Himself.
I ask where they keep resurrection.
Seasonal, He says.
Try back around Easter.
Then He lowers His voice
and offers me a dented bag of birdseed
at half price, no rebate.
The finches will not know the difference.
The dead seldom check receipts.
At closing, He sweeps the garden center
into one small pile:
mulch, sunflower shells, three bent nails,
a moth beating its invoice against the light.
He cups the moth in both hands,
walks it past the registers
and releases it into Rockford,
where everything is twenty percent off
and still too expensive.