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.
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