No smoking signs in the Santa Cruz red light district

I see you as a mind reader. Absorbing
laughter from those unaware. You continue
on with sacrosanct intent — stigmata stains on
spaghetti straps.

Those with their calculated, meticulously
calculated, reckless abandon. Forming
crowds, envious of shadows dancing under
street lamps.

You walk through them as Moses.
They pretend not to see. Dressing up
pity in nickels and dimes, waiting on their
salvation.

But you, mind reader — all knowing —
provide reassurance. Stroke their shadows.
Dropping to your knees, a pedestal, gifting a rung
below theirs.

You approach, knowing the Spirit is a small
price to pay. Your generosity lifts my faith
rungs above theirs — Most High, somewhere close to
your own.

Your words linger in smoke: an invitation
to stain your shirt. But you have no time for
uncertainty — gone. Leaves me swimming in wool much thicker
than the rest.

But you never left.

You float with me through O’Hare. We touch
down in Baltimore. Growing now, you consume
me until I empty you with remnants of
my brother’s surgery.

You spill to the floor a dark satin
stain momentarily. I refuse. I slurp and I slurp,
and I slurp needing — continuing on ’til the stigmata
runs down my chin.

I no longer exist.
You turn the corner.