The John Edward Johnson Prize
As if faith is certain and tangible
as these organic eggs or grain-fed porterhouses.
But as he hands me a paper sack, he says
it is, he isn’t talking about blind faith, no,
a scientific treatise exists that proves
God created the planet.
He asks me if I need help out, and now
I’m unsure if he means to the parking lot
or with my afterlife, but I let him continue,
follow me as he seeks my answer, my salvation.
His name is actually Grant. I want to leave
Grant and myself with wonder, the kind that accepts
not knowing. We reach the outside,
cars slowed or stopped as if they are ice floes.
of an age when no one knew of another melt,
that two hundred years had to pass
to look back—name seven years in a row
that the River Thames did not freeze solid
by Christmas to declare another time
had begun and one had ended.
I can tell Grant
faith pervades here
outside and in,
that his smile is winning.