Froggy Frenchman

No, not in the flesh — if Jesus was ever

in ordinary flesh — but in the faces

of the Christian ladies, heads held high

chanting their sorrows and joys for all

to share. He had turned away, Froggy said,

from sacred things since he was old enough

to pay his way. And here he was half-gone

on muscatel when he felt the soul soar

loose from the wreck of his body, all

350 misshapen pounds of it. No, not

in church, but on “the damn crosstown

streetcar running late.”

Sunday night in the City of Dreams,

Froggy on his way to his weekend

of the usual low-notes, cheap cigars,

Michigan wine, and stud poker, when Jesus

“come a knockin’.” At Twelfth Street

the trolley stopped and a dozen ladies

mounted, each in her best flowered dress,

each with her worn Bible in hand,

each one blessed and glowing. “Changed

my life,” Froggy says — for maybe

the hundredth time — though how

is hard to say.

descendant of voyagers, fur traders,

whiskey priests run amok in the final

wilderness, Froggy takes his ease on

the battered throne of history — a sprung

barrel chair — his tiny slippered feet

resting on a mismatched ottoman

out on the driveway. Sunday’s

his day, he tells us. Sleeps late,

breakfasts on OJ and sips of “Morgan

Davis” — a consecrated beverage — ,

and delivers his great truths to anyone

slow enough or dumb enough to listen.