TEMPLER AVE.

Just beyond crackled pavement,
ghetto streets,
I found salvation,
the unlikeliest place,
last bastion of gospel
swimming my memory’s eye,
exalted,
differed,
no payment required.
“What do you sell, deacon?”
“Why hope, of course.”

Yet how –
and why?
To so few,
reaches God’s great miracle
when small minds persist
and the hiring line of public debate
is caught between the sticky gum aftermath
from city hall’s red tape.
“Where is thy soul?” I ask,
wearing the mindless cloak of sheep -
expecting tambourine justice
admonished and spit upon
by local color.
But oh, “ye of misguided faith”
beating the rhythm of life
strong, sustained ecclesiastical booms.
“Look inside,” says deacon,
throwing open the great mahogany girth,
spilling earthly strains and swell
heavenly music uprising,
hand on his heart,
then head,
then…

“Look inside.”
…the unlikeliest place -
salvation,
beyond crackled pavement,
and ghetto streets.
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).