“Every day, I see Jesus Christ in all His distressing disguises.”
—Mother Teresa
Which explains why I am tempted to kiss the hand
of the flushed minion shoving me aside for a perch
on the # 4. There is much immediate in him,
so much otherwise and elsewhere, I presume
he is famous in some spectacular way, who can say?
I believe that holy rests in the simple.
So I scan the skin of the Post vendor looking
for flecks of gold, I plot to touch the singed fingers
of the fry cook as he passes me eggs done wrong.
I listen for wisdom in the flailing screech of the B-boy
whose earbuds transport him to a place where
swagger is sanctified. Noting my brash appraisal,
he thrusts his little sex forward, which could indeed
be a blessing of sorts. The idea I pray toward could
be the drama critic with a pinky toe fetish
or the bottle of whiskey left burning at his bedside.
Or maybe my God is the man who heat-seeks
my areolas, forgets my birth, leaves clumps of Kung Pao
in the sink to tempt Westchester’s reticent roaches.
He is so simply holy, spent, and slightly crazed
after climax. Damn, he does glow. How ironic
if my savior were a mere Bruce, his New England
stammer blessing my quest, kinking the gifted halo.