In passing
between parked economy cars and
under an armpit of a church,
a rag figure squats, salt dread locked
gnarled, in a genuflection stance.
Neither man nor woman, but frayed at legs and hands
it's haunch, covered by a beggar's blanket
grunts, quivers and pees.
Reflects a river and another oil spot
Christ's leper limps to the curb
turns round to check
with a less than penitent stare.
From this crucified face
passed time with a pungent look, a childhood friend
not seen in nineteen years.
“Tell no one who has cured you.”
While inside, this cross built church
proud sinners sing, “unclean, unworthy”
having failed to walk together, in dress shoes.
Who can reconcile, and there but for grace, go by?
Elsewhere, a parent weeps
continues one way to work.
