It offers itself to me. In the form of music, in the form of a Woman of God, in the form of guerrilla art running the length of the old brick buildings. Redemption sits quietly in the dark alleyways and in every stranger's stupid grin. When I find myself with a tenuous way, it finds me, and promises something like home.
This city is a shape-shifting one, this city has a spirit that takes hold of a homeless man's guitar and sings sweetly, straight through my bruised skin and into my organs to settle my sense of peace. This inherent soul takes the shape of a Woman of God, who hands me a cup of coffee and a cigarette and offerings of warmth and shelter. I explain to her the deity of the streets and what I owe, and she dismisses me instilling hope that tastes salty on my lips.
For this is the only home I have ever known, right here in these alleyways where redemption sits. No walls and no carpet, just the dark red brick and small concrete stoops and an accordion in the distance and the drunken people rambling echoes while I lay to rest past poisons. Quietly in those alleyways where redemption sits.