PART II

 

I'm not sure how Saint Jerome saw my poem;

He never reads anything now but newspapers and flyers

And food wrappers but somehow he knew 

I'd written about finding God asleep.

His swift-fluttering hands and expressive face

Told me to be careful; Jerome had once also

Come upon God when He slept. It was a winter day

In the 1950s, when Jerome found God 

Asleep on Jerome's regular sleeping space

On a grating outside Macy's. There was, in those days,

A delicate arrangement among the homeless men

Of midtown Manhattan. Your sleeping spot,

The cardboard you slept on, the dog or lion

With whom you shared your food or your wine

Was yours alone. Jerome and six others

Carefully carried God down the street

To Penn Station and left Him in the last car

Of a train to Montauk, an expired ticket

In His hand. They tucked a few nickels

And six dimes in His pocket in case

He was hungry when He woke up. 

The next thing Jerome remembers

It was 1963 and he was in the middle

Of hopping a freight train near the docks

In Puerto Princessa. It took him years

To get back to Seventh Avenue and by then

A saint he'd never heard of had taken over his grate.