81900
next door to the
Cabin Of Joy
next door
is where choirs sang
preachers preached
dust settled in the aftermaths of hymns
sung from faded green books
where uncles
aunts
cousins were packed in the pews
and choir stands
a weekly family reunion
afterwards
Sunday dinners
inhaled between the
amens
and
hallelujahs
consumed in shifts in the small upstairs dining room
children played
but never strayed from beyond the fence next to the
Cabin Of Joy
and on the seventh day
it rested
cigarette smoke
long gone since the morning dew
bottles of gin
consumed by metal trash cans on the curb
the night before
we watched in secret
in the darkness
from the front window of grandma's house
right across the street from the
Cabin Of Joy
tapping our feet to the blues on the jukebox
so long as grandma didn't see us
Saturday night was a chalkboard
dark figures staggering out from the front door
down the block for a last round
at the
Last Round
the last building just before the railroad tracks
dark figures staggering out from the front door of the
Cabin Of Joy
down the block
last breaths taken
we heard the gun shots
we saw the shiny knives lunging into those shadowy figures
the women who done him wrong
just like the blues song on the jukebox
the screeching tires of police cars
the clickety clack of dress shoes on the sidewalk
disappearing into the woods
escaping over backyard fences
and grandma would shoo us away
draw the shades
and the blackboard was wiped clean for the night
we forgot all about it the next day
after the preaching
after the eating
and playing in front of the church
in the interim time before the afternoon service
right next to the next door neighbor
the
Cabin Of Joy
