You can catch him Sunday morning
city street corners, lifting high

the lid torn ragged from a cardboard box,
its message printed with

a child’s Crayola colors:
EVERY BREATH, PRAISE!

A good angel companions him.
The dog, a shepherd, follows.

The angel, one of the Seven
standing ever ready in the service of God,

shackled the worst of back-alley demons,
raising the prophet to Light, anointing him

with the oil of gladness,
his message of praise.