Small Miracles

By John Grey

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I was there, a witness, saw the long-haired holy man
perform miracles in between ranting and raving.
Who cares if he smells like sheep, when one wave
of a scarred hand can bring a bus after I’ve been
waiting half an hour. Or a half-hissed prayer through
rotting teeth can provide a beautiful young woman
in a slinky red dress, also going the same way.
And what a phenomenon he has produced with
just the twist of a blood-shot eye, the squirreling
of a red nose… I have exact change and she does too.
So it really doesn’t matter that he speaks in a language
neither of us understand or that the Bible in his hand is
so battered, so dog-eared, that it begins with Psalms
and 1 Corinthians must do for Revelations. The woman and I
sit together, the bus moves on, we even start a conversation.
Okay so it’s not the Kingdom of Heaven, it’s the 127A.
And there’s probably as much devil in her as angel.
Same for me, as I can’t help staring at her slim legs, full chest.
Behind me, the holy man is still preaching
the crap out of the sidewalk, the store windows.
It’s a wonder sin survives. No it’s a miracle.

John Grey