Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Old hymns

I Come To The Garden Alone

It pisses me off a little
nearly twenty years later
a cassette tape from under the front seat
of the pastor’s white Cadillac Seville
was the best he could do
when you consider
all the Southern Baptists in Orlando
who could sing on key
in cream three piece suits
with nothing better to do
on a rainy Saturday morning.
You lay still
we squirmed in our seats
while they cued up the song
fast forward
then rewind
see sawing fore and aft
the way you once
shoehorned your Bayliner into berth.

Late afternoon sun 
ladles molten light
into the corduroy mold
of the Boyce’s garden 
soil soaked dark with spilled shadows
mine throwing up a hand
to the back of an elongated neck
alive and crawling
with the ghost of you singing
that old gospel hymn. 

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