This morning I saw Jesus (I call it Universe) reflected

in the eyes of a Black Man I picked up on Dixie Highway

in the rain. He looked younger than me,

had dreads and dressed in Carhartt layers

and carried      two work bags.   Tools,

heavy like my step-father’s

(I’ve been trying not to write about him,

not because the topic is too much, but because

a Christmas Eve suicide deserves more than a fit of words

vomited on an anniversary. The story is a real gas.

I promise.)

 

Rocky has three boys:

13, 11, and 8 (I think).

“I’m working on seven,” he said.

 

We talked about the weather in earnest

(we both fear February’s revenge and agree

that December has been mild, though, the last few years—

maybe the season is shifting).

 

“Thank you for trusting that I wasn’t a serial killer and letting me help you.”

“Be careful out there.”

And that’s when Love, the divine kind, became solid

and I saw it in the way his face froze

when he saw himself in my eyes, too

 

 

 

 

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