Made in Heaven

By DENNIS TRUJILLO

I’m riding the bus, listless, looking at
storefronts, cars, and people — my
eyes dull as a parrot that’s been
in a pet shop window for way too long.
Thoughts on what to do when I get home:
Online chess? Discovery Channel?
Bowl of chili? At a stop near the park
I see a homeless man — his face
tanned brown as a chestnut —
on a bench with pant legs rolled up
revealing dirt-crusted feet stuffed
in sandals. His cap has the phrase —
Made in Heaven. He raises his eyes
and looks at me. Pure light pours
from his eyes into mine, burning.
In my mind a campfire is lit. I sit
on a log sharing hard-crusted bread
and a bottle of wine with strangers.

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