Johnny the Greek

Kinda unsure about this one. Morally, rather than poetically. This is a real man, and a true story, but I would not say these things to him in person. Because they are angry things. To his credit, since I stopped speaking to him, he has not come over to my area to yammer at me. Which means, I think, that he gets that I am not speaking to him. This is an amount of consideration greater than zero.
Hopefully having written this, I've gotten my own frustrations off my chest. And I hope this guy finds a good way out of the place that he's in.

Head held up and back, till your chin
folds into your neck, chest puffed out
with every one of Alexander's victories, you wear
your ridiculous hats as if
you'd personally invented the Olympics, and received
a much-deserved reward.

"Oh god here he comes," groan the men,
but you're not even watching
"it's that creepy guy," wince the women,
though I doubt you would care, if you knew

When you speak to God he answers you, Johnny,
in the warm bemused tones of one grown accustomed
to hearing his own words spill from someone else's lips--
the favored son of a favored race, less to blame
for Christ's death than the Romans
(who after all did the crucifying)
and all who follow the church of Rome
damned in your eyes by,
let's call it

But you, Johnny, you
are guileless, guiltless from the get-go.
You recount with a face full of glee
the sins of those you say that God will not forgive
and fantasize his wrath
and it's easy for you, Johnny,
cause you've never trespassed against anyone.

You keep to public places.
Like the place I work.

I sling potato salad, and you serve
heaping spoonfuls of your wisdom
to everyone who fails
to make good their escape.

Ernest, who sits in the sun, smokes roll-ups like I do,
he's working on his GED, hitting the gym, and if he mutters
angrily to himself all day as the curb softens under his angles,
and I don't know the story of his scars,
he is my friend.

Aldona, who is sweet and takes a hint, wears purple, reads much
and wants to chat
and some of us run from the friendly, lonely, white-haired lady
with the shaggy dog stories, but she
is most definitely my friend.

Where you work, you say, it's all
chemicals and corpses and exacting
sanitation standards, and though I respect
you do an unpleasant and difficult job,
I bet cadavers listen best of all,
and never ever ever interrupt.

Upstairs in the breakroom, we have a television.
It is always on, always
at maximum volume, only gets one channel--
Cheaters, judge shows, Raymond, Lopez, King of Queens--
and I have to walk past and the sound won't stay down and I can't
turn it off,
and you are that television, Johnny

and I
have lost patience with you.
You bully all the world in self-defense.
You've made yourself an argument against.

And so, dear John, though I can't say we're friends
I know you will get all this off your chest
lay down among your perfect audience
and that will be the first day of the rest