by Ian Bush
he stood on the corner, up from the laundry mat. Sandpaper digits held up a card broad sign that read “HOME LESS”. his lips buzzed,
hummed “Amazing Grace” at the sky,
clear blue, bone-dry and bright.
Countless faces, all belonging to some other species.
A question for God: Who makes the stained glass in children’s eyes and why don’t they blink when they look at me?