Balboa Boulevard
pulling over to park I passed him
a figure tall and straight as a stick
wearing wool cap and pea coat
his feet inching along the sidewalk,
his silver beard bristling under his chin
I killed the engine and waited
waited for the stick figure to pass
sandaled feet shuffled into view
then came to a halt
(one -one thousand, two -one thousand…)
he wasn’t going anywhere
(schizophrenic. derelict, wino…)
my brain was awash in a pool of negativity
followed by shame, resentment, impatience
I got out and began unloading my gear
‘Good morning!’
the Indian accent was prominent
I raised my head
the spectacled eyes radiated kindness
the smile was joyful and genuine
‘Good morning to you!’ I said
‘How old do you think I am?’
I paused before lying
‘Oh, I don’t know. Fifty-five?’
(I cringed at my own phoniness)
he laughed
‘I am eighty-four today.’
‘Wow! Happy Birthday!
‘You don’t look eighty-four.’
(the truth – he didn’t)
‘It is a beautiful day today.’
with open palms he circled his arms
as if to take in the vast wonder of all
creation in a sweeping embrace
‘God is everywhere present.’
in this moment he looked and
sounded like the Mahatma
it took my breath away
I placed a hand on his shoulder
‘Indeed, my friend,
‘God is everywhere present.’