“I am God. I am God. I am God”
came from the back of the small blue bus,
for a while a monotone repetition,
a simple assertion. Then variations, stresses
on different words and sudden pauses
“I am God. I am God. I am…God.”
Sometimes it was mesmerizing, almost
soothing, but usually it was annoying
like the rosary or chanting or bad jazz. God

rode my bus to the drop-in center, looked
like D.H. Lawrence, looked like me. He was
about my age. One afternoon, dropping him
home at the Stratford rooming house with its dirt
yard and torn screens, he crossed in front of the bus
and stepped into the street without looking.
A passing cab knocked him down. Oh my God!
I jumped out to help, afraid of what I might see,
how hurt he’d be, but he was all right.
“Clipped my goddamn knee,” he cursed.

The closest I’ve come to God was God
sitting in the street, rubbing his knee—
nothing broken, nothing bleeding—and me
crouched beside him, my arm across his back as if
we were twins, or teammates on a team that never wins.