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  • The prophet of morning sits on the bench in his long grey robes, smoking a cigarette, drinking a Starbucks, his long grey beard part white, curly with nicotine orange, his long white hair rippling down into it. He faces East, smiling, smiling to the nowhere men of his life.

    The angel mom walks past me as I walk out on this Thursday early morning, mom with her ear buds in, holding her smartphone playing music, as if it were a flat glass begging plate, talking to her young son, instructing him, as her ears fill with the sound, mom doing her angel best to multi-task along the sidewalk.

    At the corner, an angel dad--so many more in number now--is adjusting the double stroller which has but one of the tots in it today, and
    adjusts his pack, and the dog, multi-tasking the corner, as the sidewalk bicyclists all helmeted and buff, in their multi-thousand dollar bicycles and their trim spandex, fearing the road, make hard harsh right turns, continuing their bold hip bravery of playing 40 miles per hour chicken with pedestrians, just missing the angel dad and his morning blessed burden.

    The prophet across the street continues facing East, engaging his shopping cart in the amusements of his mind, dragging a bit of puff, sipping the coffee, using the bench as God intended as an impromptu table top.

    I push my morning stubs out fast on my outbound walk.

    On the return: the many morning beseechers crouch down on bended knee to pray at the spokes of their bicycles, locking them with a wish and a wing. Many bended at the lock-up stops.

    As I re-pass the prophet of the shopping cart, I see he has a second Starbucks which has joined the first and he is outright chatting with his coffee, his cart.

    No glamour here, no mystifying testifying here, from me.

    Yet I notice, the long grey robed man in summer is the only one on the morning city street who sits in shade, who sits quietly, who is sipping his darn coffee without, believe it, walking.


    (Photo by Susan, August 4, 2013)
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