I was handing out food on Southside once

And met a homeless man called Jerry.

He told me he had a job interview

Coming up and I said good for him.

. . .

I had a large coffee in my hands and he 

Motioned in its direction haphazardly.

Grew up on that shit, he said.

Used to be those frappuccinos from QT.

. . .

Then that got too sweet so I started going

Full black, and at first it was like lickin’

The butt of a cigarette, but then I loved it

And it saved me, still saves me, I’m a snob.

. . .

I ain’t married to it, though. You know,

If one morning it’s too bitter, like sharp,

I’ll just add in a little of my sugar, a little bit

More of my cream ‘til it tastes good.

. . .

Hell, tomorrow it’ll be somethin’ different.

That’s what’s good about tomorrow is

We get to keep just tryin’ shit out.

Anyway, you get it. Thanks for the burger.

God bless.

I was in the shower today before noon and randomly (or maybe not so randomly according to an irregular heartbeat) flicked through an absent mind’s cabinet of many condolences until I found one that gave me pause: “The Lord is near. Be anxious for nothing.”

Dear God, tell that to my body. I scrubbed my scalp and got the water hot enough to leave a rash on my face. What a silly thing to say for comfort, I thought. Said from the poor mouth of a man too naive to know better, or worse, from the condescending mouth of a man who piledrives us into knowing whatever “better” he knows. Either way silly, unless I can ring the genie under my bed and ask for medicine to cure my dizziness, at which point I’ll put on my robe and make pancakes.

Let’s read the room a bit and offer a proper edit: “The Lord is near, but we can’t be sure, so it’s fair that one might be anxious for *some* things.” Does caring for a newborn in the throes of a backwards nation amidst a never-expiring pandemic pass the sniff test?

. . .

Hours later, having forgotten my spat with scripture, I rode in the back of the car next to her, periodically peeking beneath the carseat cover to see her breathe. She started to pucker her bottom lip for a cry but met my eyes right in time to listen. “Mama’s here,” I said. “You’re okay. You have everything you need.” I kid you not, she put her softest hand atop the roughness of mine -- just placed it there and slept.

In a single clarifying moment, I am both the poor man and the know-it-all, saying the silliest thing to comfort a child. But how easy it was coming out when, from high above it all, you can guarantee that what you say is true. I wondered at what point in the game of growing older it becomes so much harder to hear, perhaps because too many years have already wound us up. We can’t feel where to place our hand anymore.

Not one of us understands the peace of God -- our simple brains ought not try. And it’s a devil to receive it when our hearts and minds and bodies are so bogged down. But maybe our consolation is that even if we don’t remember his nearness, even if we’re hard of hearing it, high above it all, there was no struggle saying it.

“Rejoice! The God of peace will guard you.” I want to shut my eyes in that kind of faith. I want to be so foolish and so entitled to the notion that though I worry, I’m effortlessly held. I want to give in to the silly promise of peace, because by the looks of it, the sleep is good.