He easily ignored
the stares,
the crude comments,
the threatening gestures,
engendered
by his street-corner ministry:
his testament of Faith.
He overcame his fear
with his Belief
that, even in these squalid
ghetto streets,
the Word
should enlighten.
While he sang
“What a Friend we have
in Jesus,”
a hulk in gangsta garb
spat on him,
and he worried that
his Testimony
only made
his God
sad.
The crisp, orange daylight fades
into crystalline evening.
The stars, just out of reach,
twinkle in ballroom splendour:
Morse messages long forgotten.
The chill northern breeze whispers
rude suggestions to graceful maples.
Their blushes, still visible
in October’s early light,
soon thaw the frosted lawn.
Chimneys draw straight lines
over cool suburban streets:
auras redolent of porridge
and the warmth of brown toast:
fortifying strength for another autumn day.
