You are not external to Him.
And you blend just as seamlessly with the
brown-skinned man next to you at the bus stop.
And the one whose pock-scarred face you ignore. Him, too. Or Her depending on the day.
The one who walks tall and smells like a two-pack a day.
The curried and bleach-wrinkled hands of those who provide for you are He and She and you.
The waves of blue tarps in the desert that house those bombed out of home? He, She and We.
Instead of looking up to sing praises,
look down into the sleeping faces on the streets you walk and say, “I love you.”