Going home on the subway,
when you open the newspaper
you’d just picked up 
at the corner
before coming down the steps,
there is always the person
next to you slyly reading
over your shoulder
and getting visibly upset
when you turn the page
before they finish the story
about some woman in Mexico or Brazil
discovering the Virgin’s face in a mango
or seeing it in a puddle of water
in the road to the junkyard
or the Granada dig uncovering the bones
of people fallen in their tracks
during attacks in a medieval street battle.
Keep turning.