What A Miracle Is

Once I crossed the Sierra Madres

with a bus driver named Arturo

who had one arm

and a stick-shift bus.

 

Sometimes between the

the shift and wheel Arturo’s 

good right arm would

pause to make the sign 

of the cross toward a portrait 

of the Virgin that banged 

the windshield from a string.

 

The lesson here is that

never is a miracle more than 

beating the percentages. 

 

Perhaps Arturo still is

waving down the 

twisted camino 

at each shrine

along the way. 

 

“What’s your hurry?”

always he will ask—

 

“Do you think you

don’t have time to 

find your grave?” 

 

What A Miracle Is

 

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