poem

Yea And There Shall Be Signs

It happened on the way home from work

your Road To Damascus moment, Lent on the wane,

traffic moving, sun shining, window cracked

on a warm one, epiphany, like egg size

hail on a bright blue day, difficult to reconcile

but hard to ignore maybe harder

to divine the message behind the minor

traffic altercation between fellow pilgrims, one

an off season Santa Claus in a rust bucket

Ford wagon, vanity plate KRSKRGL1, seasonal

bumper stickers I Brake For Reindeer and

so on, the other a Leaf ferrying two

women wearing hijab’s, talking animatedly,

driving fast, provoking the wrath of Jolly St. Nick,

thinner, crustier in the flesh, smartly cutting him

off then speeding away leaving him behind,

the Man in Red apoplectic, boney left

hand thrust out the window in a hearty

FUCK YOU!, Fuller Brush hair wreathed in

exhaust and cigar smoke, one brief glimpse

of the divine, deigned by an 

incomprehensible deity or a God in Groucho 
glasses, eye brows a-bob,  

the eternal dichotomy, yours to ponder.