My church

Sometimes I find
there is more wisdom here

in the moldy crackled walls
of dirty carpets and plastic chairs
and the taste of hot dogs split in three
so there’s enough to share

than in a thousand gleaming halls.

Sometimes I find
there is more love here 

in the dress bought with everyone’s hands
of ripped fabric and whispers of good will 
and the eyes of a teary groom 
with trembling hands and empty pockets

than in a million sparkling diamonds.

Sometimes I find
there is more hope here

in the boxes of pizza we can afford
of greasy laughter and cheap Bibles
and the feel of calloused fingers
caressing wet cheeks and hungry bellies

than in any dazzling speech.

Sometimes I find
there is more courage here

in the way the children laugh as they throw the clay 
with no Christmas presents waiting back home 
and small bruised eyes heal
from stinging sights and many memories 

than in the best Homeric epic.

Sometimes I find
that the face of Christ is shown ever more

in the hospital floors you sleep on
in the empty fridge you stare at
in the dusty road you cough through
in the sewage smell you inhale
day in and day out
on your way to church

than in any other place I’ve seen. 

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