Chapel

The church towers over the
neighborhood. It
is a constant reminder
that you are being watched.
Over your shoulder, peeking
at you between buildings,
always the center
your line of sight.

Maniac street sweeper does
not care about your life
or property. He is an urban
glacier, remaking the
landscape.

Ticket puncher or token taker,
squeezed into her daily costume
tries to shake off her skin.
She is tightly packed gunpowder.
Her hair is her is glowing
and her walk impresses concrete.

An
old man drags a dolly down
the street and stops
in front of the church. He
genuflects and bows his head.

He crosses himself. He lets
go of his cargo because
the church doors are open on
this August morning and he
has a direct view across the street
and up the stairs and over the pews
to the tabernacle.

His mother leaning over his shoulder
--
“Mostrar respeto. Es su lugar
de ser humilde.”
She fears brick and
placates mortar. She raised
masonry missionaries.
This city is a church
built on bones.
The earth is too much, you
must place your faith
into what is cut into it.