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Poetry

11/22/2017

D. Mustur

 

The Homeless One

One purpled Advent eve,
I met Christ, the Homeless One,
begging in the rain
at Georgia and Burrard.

He knelt playing a violin
while the crowds passed by,
striding with the carols
coming from the Cathedral.

T'was the silent custody
of his downcast eyes that
drew me to take a knee
and linger by his side.

He quietly put down his bow,
wrote with his index finger
on the wet sidewalk and
looked me in the eye.

Corrected, I quietly rose
and I ambled away,
straighter and humbler
on the road to Bethlehem.

By Michael Dallaire