I’m in Manhattan to meet Christ.
Shards of rain slice the sky.
I pause at Caesura’s Cafe for a liberal latte.
“Ex-presso!” I say.
“But you want a cappuccino!” replies the waiter.
“I want an ex-presso.”
The waiter gets huffy, “State your intentions!” he snaps,
“This is no way to meet Christ!”
I finish my coffee and board the F via the D.
An old woman on the seat across from me winks.
“Oh, the unbearable lightness of being.” I sigh.
“Don’t be absurd!” snaps the old woman.
The train rattles and roars.
I raise a finger and point toward Heaven. “Tell him to don’t.”
The old woman cackled. “Oh, He never don’ts! Where do you meet Him?”
“At Penn Station.”
“That could be any time.”
“That could be as we speak.”
The old woman rummaged through her bags, “But it won’t be you
know. He hates mixing action with dialogue.”
The waiter delivers my Cappuccino with flourish and whispers,
“He is everywhere. He is in your hair.”