Christening

This river belongs to the man without a home.
Between classes I ventured through the brush,
and caught a glimpse of him skipping rocks in tattered clothes.
His torn black jacket had golden buttons that glimmered in the February sun.

I could see an equatorial line on his jeans, just above his knees.
Speculating on this line, I walked to Communications,
in awe of the man who owns the river.

Two weeks later I yearned for the moon, and the stars
and walked to the river side.
He stood submerged in it,
that line I had noticed earlier, marked his convergence with the Hudson.
His arms out spread, as if receiving the Holy Spirit of the crescent,
he basked in his midnight audience.

The water was jet black, and the tide calm as mahogany,
but I have a life to lead,
and blood to bleed,
before I bathe within sea.