WHERE I SAW GOD LAST
The dimple in your right cheek, the child playing peek
a-boo from his stroller, the abuelita who spends her
afternoons in the park by 86th; the teenagers on the
subway who cannot control their laughter; Neil, my
neighbor, who always asks about you, the mother who
whispers a dozen times a day, “thank you, Jesus, thank
you, Jesus, thank you Jesus”; the saxophone player at
42nd street, the poets, the artists, the garden volunteers;
the metro car driver who sticks his head out the window
to make sure we’re all aboard; the man who gave up
his seat on the subway, the kid in the dinosaur pajamas
who cannot be convinced they’re not school attire; the
teachers, the nurses, the taxi cab drivers; the woman at
the end of the block with her happy dogs and her books
in the window. the lovers that lay sprawled out on park
blankets, the runners, the daydreamers, the sidewalk chalk
artists; John from upstairs whose favorite flowers are
yellow tulips, the Persian man at the grocery who tells me
to be safe when I leave, my grandmother in Georgia; my
neighbor, the stranger; thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus
thank you, Jesus.
Poem by
Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed