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When I cross at the five way intersection
Of the big street to town and its local arteries on a rainy day,
I see a little black man in a poncho, under which
He wears a cheap tuxedo, with sneakers on his feet
And a crucifix around his neck. He stands by the nearest curb,
Peddling roses at the rate of six dollars for three –
Reasonable, but not promotional.
It is on his cardboard sign, which is just the opposite.

I have seen no one stop for him.
I have been left to my wonderment at his occupation
At my every passing, and have come to only one conclusion
About his existence: That, by the manifolds of God on earth,
He is an Angel of Random Treaties.

Occasionally, businessmen on the drive home from town
Must see him at the side of the street, and in fits of incredible passion,
By the coincident recognition of the abundances availed by Fortune,
Determine to demonstrate their matrimonial devotions,
Pausing in rush-hour traffic to hand him a few singles
In return for a cumulative blessing
To be bestowed unto the kitchen sill.

This is, after all, a way in which God works.
For what other reason could he be there?

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