From the chairs
faces brightly shine
like early Sunday
clothed to watch
and rightly bathed
in song and word
like baptisms
sprinkled fresh
over righteous
hungry souls.
Her jazzy words
float like flowers
cast on oceans
where souls rest
far below
where lonely ears
patiently wait
to be freed.
Slipping fast
with speed of cats
her heavy voice
runs the door
to the street
striking hard
buses and cars,
stiff shirts and
flat faces
breaking her into
a million pieces
for the world to share.
Roger Singer 