The poem
Not every wino is a Holy Man. Oh, but some of them are. I love those who've learned to sit comfortably for long periods with their hams pressed against their calves, outdoors, with a wall for a back-rest, contentedly saying nothing. These move about only when necessary, on foot, and almost always in pairs. I think of them as oblates. Christ's blood is in their veins or they thirst for it. They have looked into the eyes of God, unprotected by smoked glass.