WHERE I SAW GOD LAST

by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed

The dimple in your right cheek,

the child playing peek-a-boo from his stroller,

the abuelita who spends her afternoons

in the park by 86th; the teenagers on the subway

who cannot control their laughter; Neil, my neighbor,

who always asks about you, the mother who whispers

a dozen times a day, “thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus”; the saxophone player at

42nd street, the poets,

the artists, the garden volunteers; the metro car driver

who sticks his head out the window to make sure we’re all aboard; the man who gave up his seat on

the subway, the kid in the

dinosaur pajamas who cannot be convinced they’re not

school attire; the teachers, the nurses, the taxi cab drivers;

the woman at the end of the block with her yappy dogs and her

books in the window, the lovers that lay sprawled out on park blankets,

the runners, the daydreamers, the sidewalk chalk artists;

John from upstairs whose favorite flowers are yellow tulips, the Persian man at the grocery who tells

me to be safe when I leave,

my grandmother in Georgia; my neighbor, the stranger; thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus, thank you,

Jesus.