In The Wake of the Miraculous
I met an angel in a parking lot,
having stopped the car to ask directions.
He was thirty-esh, nondescript in feature,
and so light, I felt lifted too. He told me
clearly how to get to the Bourne Bridge,
and I did. It must have been five years ago.
The picture of his open face, its aura
of sheer happiness, his focus and address,
and his readiness to oblige, do not
leave me. How else could I have known him
for an angel? And why else now, alone
as daylight fades, in this familiar room,
do I remember him, and feel the need,
the very urgent need, to ask directions?