For the Man in the Red Jacket

. . . the waters are come in . . . —Psalm 69:1

His word, more than his face, remains, trailing me as the rain that stuck to my glasses and soaked my clothes,

seeping through my windows, my façade into the crawlspace of memory.

I see now he was serious: as we’d passed on the street, each moving the other way, he’d pulled off

his red jacket hood and tried to make eye contact. Have you necessarily taken the time,

he’d asked, to find out what grace is for? Reluctant to break the rhythm of my run,

I’d turned just enough to see him in my periphery, standing alone on the corner as the rain started,

and said nothing. If he’d asked for money or the time, I might have slowed, at least to tell him I didn’t have any or

It’s six twenty-two. But grace, I remember thinking. Get serious, brother, and out of the rain. It’s early. I’m

running. We’re about to be wet and our garments as heavy as Genesis. Of course I’ve made time for grace.