The man on the streetcorner huffs and puffs
and blows an angry wind at the passersby.
The passersby recoil from his bloodshot eyes,
his blistered neck and forearms,
his indignant, wire-brush hair.
He argues aloud with himself.
Only the crimson-faced woman who swears
that Elvis speaks to her through the commode
will challenge him.
The shout conspiracies in each other's direction
while anxious pedestrians hurry past,
eager to avoid eye contact.
The pedestrians also carry on a conversation
with themselves,
one which, if audible, would showcase
all of the terror and rage and neuroticism
that mixes into our human predicament.
Vehicle traffic passes by with indifference.
Drivers hurl terrible indignities
at their fellow motorists.
A couple stumbles into the road and is nearly
taken out by a tour bus.
The bus collides with an SUV,
underscoring the razor-thin margin
that separates the fortunate from the forsaken.
Each of us is one medical catastrophe,
one financial devastation,
two tragic steps from tipping into the abyss.
So, hold grace for the man on the streetcorner,
grace for the crimson-faced sister,
grace for the pedestrians and motorists
and all whose fate balances on the knife's edge.
For you and me,
hold grace.
