Dan steals baby Jesus from the manger at St. Peter's on Main Street. I am sitting in the living room making the perfect acid checklist: cigarettes YES lighter YES pot YES Rolling Rock YES fried marbles YES Jolly Ranchers YES grey Honda YES keys YES Grace YES Nick YES Dan Dan? Dan is hanging baby Jesus from the ceiling light fixture by the big toe. Dan wants a door from the kitchen to his room: he cuts one, invites everyone over for a wall painting party. We get high. He paints the walls blue and the ceiling red. The five year old who lives upstairs wanders into the apartment, points to a bong on the table, say, "What's that?" "It's a trumpet," Dan says. Cigarettes Check Lighter Check Pot Check Trumpet Check Mexican Radio Check Grace Check Nick Check Dan Dan? Dan wants to paint all the door knobs at the college different colors. I hold the red, green, blue, and white, Dan holds the paintbrush. Dan paints the baby Jesus blue. Dan and I drive 4,000 miles in four days. I pump the gas. Dan dries wet buds in minimart microwaves all across America. I drive barefoot in a dress through the south. Dan spills Coke on his favorite tape; I hold it out the window to dry. Cigarettes check pot check lighter check Dan Dan? Dan is sitting in The Deli drinking coffee. He overhears two policemen talking about the miracle, his miracle: the baby Jesus, stolen from the manger on Christmas, and returned to St. Peter's on Easter. I get the checklist, Dan steals the street signs; I hold his paint, he drives. Dan is a poet; I collect his words, and put them in a safe place for him.