Randolph Stop South — Jonathan Michael Johnson

He walked up to me,

this man on the El’,

a stranger,

and said the Lord asked him to bless me.

His suit was gray,

And his tie was…

I don’t recall.

The essence of caramel tinged his skin,

and his eyes,

a feast of lime, maize, blueberry,

intensified as he spoke —

enticed by…


A tired sigh,

empty stare?

I can’t remember being hungry.

I don’t believe in angels.

I do not worship gods.

But on that morning,

with the scent of sweet, molten gold

rising from the quaking ground,

I tasted faith.

© 2016