Now You Are Like a God

Now you are like a god, said the man on the street

after he saw me struggling with three window screens 

and two fans, an open can of still-cold seltzer. In Flat 

Hardware the clerk asked if I need help reaching the top 

shelf, the box fans there. I’ve got it, I said, on tiptoe, 

reaching and holding everything I want. I could give you 

a boost, he said, holding his hands in a stirrup, tilting 

his head like how ’bout it, lady? to make me laugh. So 

I laughed, said I’ll boost YOU, buddy, and we are both 

laughing when I pay for my three window screens, two fans. 

The woman behind me in line and I watch while he fits 

the box fan into a sack, cuts ribbons of more sack so 

precisely with his box cutter, ties them to the handles.

This is what love looks like sometimes, such care 

with small tasks. Him altering this plastic bag, a little 

performance art, our side of the counter full of awe. 

Walking down Flatbush with the precious bag, I balance 

the screens and oscillating fan and walk the couple blocks 

to Ronnie’s house, see the men on the street who are always 

there, smoking their plumes of delicious pot. One calls out 

I say it’s okay, I don’t think they’ll fit, I don’t have to go that far. 

Trust me; I do this, I do this, he says, takes the bag and screens 

from my arms, fits them together, somehow makes the bag 

bigger, makes everything work. He fits the three screens in 

and hoists the precious up my bare shoulder for me. Now you 

are like a god! he says, sending me off with a flourish of his kind

and competent stranger’s hands, past the chop cheese bodega, 

the man we nicknamed Hoyuelos, once we learned how to say

Dimples right. Over the B and Q lines, into the rest of our lives.