I pass him at the same time most mornings, pacing, proselytising, jeans turned up, casual shirt ironed, unlike mine,

and I think about how gentrification has affected our quality of street preacher —

whatever happened to those Sons of David with their Afrika Bambaataa shoulder pads and claims to Israeli nationhood?

My dour Dawkins days are behind me so I want to wish him a good morning

but the impulse dulls as it reaches my throat and I smile into my face mask instead.

"Good morning, haha! What did God say today?"

He's like a slick stage pyschic facing the icy oblivion of a packed house in the moment the earpiece goes dead

and if my mask wasn’t a fortress I'd tell him that I am God and so is he

and if the words that appear in his head run something along the lines of "Sod this for a game of soldiers, I'm going back to bed"

then that is the word of God and he should bellow it with pride.

The morning glints with the right blend of brightness and cold.

It's a couple of hours before I get to preach on the differences between Epic, Dramatic and Lyric.

The Kingdom of God is at hand.

Friday Poem: The Good News

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