When I cross at the five way intersection
Of the big street to town and its local
arteries on a rainy day,
I see a little black man in a
poncho, under which
He wears a cheap
tuxedo, with
sneakers on his feet
And a
crucifix around his neck. He stands by the nearest curb,
Peddling roses at the rate of six dollars for three –
Reasonable, but not promotional.
It is on his cardboard sign,
which is just the opposite.
I have seen no one stop for him.
I have been left to my
wonderment at his occupation
At my every passing, and have come to only one conclusion
About his existence: That, by the
manifolds of God on earth,
He is an
Angel of
Random Treaties.
Occasionally, businessmen on
the drive home from town
Must see him at the side of the street, and in fits of
incredible passion,
By the
coincident recognition of the
abundances availed by Fortune,
Determine to demonstrate their
matrimonial devotions,
Pausing in
rush-hour traffic to hand him a few singles
In return for a
cumulative blessing
To be bestowed unto the
kitchen sill.
This is, after all, a way in which
God works.
For what other reason could he be there?