Stoop Sermon
We hold church on concrete, palms pressed to chipped brick, the pastor is a man in a Timberland suit and a hoodie preaching from the light of a streetlamp that flickers like it’s arguing with the city. Children count stars between high-rises, naming constellations after corner stores and exes, while elders fold their knees like prayer books, hands smelling of soap and coal and yesterday’s work. Hear us — we are hymns written in asphalt, we are gospel in a cadence of bus brakes and bass. Mama bangs a pot at dawn like a metronome, keeping time for folks who try to sleep through rent. The barber hums gospel…
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