He was there
in the tomato aisle,
mumbling to cans
of puree and sauce,
saying a few words
to the San Marzanos,
his ragged nails
lingering on labels
before he moved on
to the beans.
I saw him, too,
along the city blocks,
his maroon eyes
staring out
from the shroud
of his brown hoodie,
zipped to the stubble
of his chin.
Strolling past bungalows,
he swung his arms,
his limp sleeves
whooshing like wings,
the hems of his
torn baggy khakis
caught in the tongues
of his dusty Adidas.
“Doma may culpa,
ya-da-da-day-da,” he’d say.
“In-aye doh kyrie,
et spirit too.”
Mumbling in
scratched solace
over the whiz and sing
of endless cars,
he sometimes stopped
in the spaces between
sun and shade.
Growing silent,
he pulled small things
from his pockets
to hold to his lips—
saying a few words
to an unpeeled carrot
or a tiny green apple
before he bit and chewed,
his eyes straight ahead
as he swallowed.
Today, he was there,
as I walked by the church,
the spire of a
gothic steeple
piercing cirrus clouds
as he sat on the steps
drawing chips
from a small bag
of Lays.
“Doma may culpa,
ya-da-da-day-da,” he said.
“In-aye doh kyrie,
et spirit too.”
He addressed each Lay’s
with vibrato
before he savored,
his pace unbreaking,
until he beheld
the rounded perfect chip.
“Doma may culpa,
ya-da-da-day-da,” he said.
“In-aye doh kyrie,
et spirit too.”
He let the bag fall
and drift away
as he rose to a stance,
his hoody intact
over his shaved head,
the legs of his pants
melding to cassock.
“In-ex-cell-sis,” he said.
“Hose-anna, hose-anna.”
Turning to the sun,
he raised the chip skyward
as people passed by,
their heads bowed,
their faces stilled,
forever scrolling
on their phones.
