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Summer
Traveler
By JOAN RITTY
I see you, wandering Christ,
along the road
hitch-hiking, bearded, strapped
to your backpack load
and pass you by, fearing
what may not be divine:
uncertain man, mixture
of water, wine.
Pass by your weariness,
ignore your obvious thirst,
your many hungers subtly shaped,
more subtly cursed.
Not free to trust,
in passing by I know
which silver coins will clink,
which cock will crow.
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