This sleeping tramp beside me wakes and smiles.
Scratches his beard; asks Is the coffee hot?
I hand him a steaming cup; say My style’s
my life’s work. He sips, stares; states I think not.
I turn my back. Gaze out at my portrait.
Praise it. Mention I’ll cheat on my lover.
He munches a cinnamon roll. Dunks it.
Suggests Then you may never recover.
I straighten my bright tie in the mirror.
Toss out I’m going to lie to my friends.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve: Oh I fear
such gestures surely will signal the end.
He stands by me. Speaks to our reflection:
Let’s step back to prayer and meditation.
Roger Armbrust
May 25, 2011
