Today Savannah’s squares
are drizzled gray. On Drayton Street,
a man in house shoes and a raincoat
shuffles toward the curb, waits for his dog
to pee, and tells me
in his thick Spanish accent,
A good place to go is the Catholic church.
When I say that’s where we’re headed,
he nods his approval.
Take your time. Thirty,
forty minutes. You will love it.
I thank him and wonder, briefly,
as I dodge a puddle,
whether we look lost or if he is
simply guiding us to reprieve
from the rain. Maybe he fancies himself
some sort of evangelist to tourists —
slightly disheveled, unassuming,
pointing us, in his way, toward God.