So I walk out into the universe to test my existence.

Why does worry preoccupy the city, the planet?

In the migrant center, I hand out a box lunch
to a little boy drumming a cartoon tune.

A mother sits on the floor, bottle-feeds a child.
She looks up at me. I give her two boxes.

Souls in a strange land, different pace, mortal time…

A man stands in a cold corner of the migrant center,
he carries a canvas tote bag, inside the bag, one short sleeve
shirt and dungarees.

He cautiously walks up to me and says, “Tengo hambre.”
I reach for another box lunch.

The stench of God is everywhere, in the water, on the walls,
in the air.

The world spins on, the city stamps on. Migrants,
folks, knock on doors.