Waiting For God

I went to Dublin in search of Joyce, and found Beckett instead.

I stumbled on Saunders, while browsing for Salinger in a Pasadena bookstore.

I took Highway 17 to the land of Steinbeck – I found no lightbulb moments, 

but plenty of friends.

I went out for coffee one humid May morning, and found love.

How often the greatest of magic so lies camouflaged in life’s margins.

In the next shelf, town, or shop over. 

Maybe one day, I’ll finally learn to start there.