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Reflecting
Innocent days of my being the inquisitive
Fearful
PK
A quiet moment
when he was himself
Dropped knowledge like water
Melting from the icicles on the roof of our front porch
in the warmth of early April
Not sure what triggered it
but
It came out of nowhere
like the #102 bus
Barreling down Broadway
I didn’t ask him
Just came out of him
And he didn’t face me
Words
Spoken in the living room in another direction
While watching
Sandford & Son
Strange time for it
He was a
DK
A deacon’s kid
So I thought I was special
But didn’t tell him so
And when I write
Or choose not write
Remembering
He told me
Preachers are called
They do not call themselves
Pretty simple in its context
But
Deep like daddy
Finally
catching up to the
#102 city bus down the street
Some years later when
He read my poem
Maybe that was the trigger
Will never know
Just
Remembering that preachers are like
writers of poems
Called
They do not call themselves
The congregation can tell the difference
Moved
by the Holy Ghost
Or
Moved
to run into the streets
Fists held high
Damn it
We ain’t gonna take this no more
And the preacher
Looks down at the
writer of poems
Amidst half empty pews
A long
Knowing glance
Hallelujah!
Saved
And Sanctified
