First Person Plural: Gesu Church, Miami

11:30a.m.

Placing one foot in front of the other I give direction to a one man inquisition. The sky has cast itself in judgment, cementing this day beneath others of greater significance. Lofty clouds disperse, choosing assimilation over the aerial view. Now only a city block apart, the Church and I take measure of one another for the first time.

Pink…

The bubblegum parish fades into the surrounding architecture. Sic transit gloria mundi.

People of faith exit the church wearing sullen expressions, betraying their inward reflection.

Elderly pedestrians pass without a glance.

Homeless people meander in hopes of a charitable act.

One approaches me, mistaking my pen for a cigarette. She apologizes for the misunderstanding and walks away. I have a pack in my pocket.

A lone man stands anxious on the curb, restlessly eyeing the oncoming traffic. Someone is to pick him up from this, our iridescent landmark.

Before a great pink and yellow pillar I stand pen in hand. A city owned electric box placed squarely center on the sidewalk becomes my desk. Passersby take no heed.

I light a cigarette to tempt the unfortunate wanderers as an officer on horseback trots by, leaving a stagnant trail of horse-shit-flavored air.

Reluctantly, I partake in respiration.

The scent fades and I enjoy my smoke.

An unending march of metal muddles past, engines built in the far east speak of their subtle charm imbued by capitalism.

I’m spotted once again in the shadow of the Intercessor by one of our cities needy. Before he asks I ready a cigarette which he eagerly accepts. I smile and put forth a light. Smiling he thanks me, and begins to saunter off. I follow his lead.

11:45a.m.
By Ryan Michael McGrath