Weep, congregation

There are some things in life that for some weird reason or another pull your heart in certain directions.
For example, the way "Blackbird" by the beatles makes me cry, or the way whenever I see a picture of Miami Beach I feel desperate to leave everyone and everything and just GO, or the way red lipstick on an old lady makes me smile.

I went to the Sulphur-Springs county fair the other week, and if you had been there you would have probably found me listening to various authors trying to sell me their books, in the "Book-fair" section. One author was a man named Tom Geddie, old and hefty with white hair and an unshaved face. Poet of free-verse.
"How much?" I asked, for his new book.
"$15." He responded, ready to accept my cash.
"Oh. I just spent most of my money on homemade soap. I only have two dollars left."
"Well how about I give you some of my old books from years ago? A dollar- (usually two!)- for each."
"That sounds great...."
"...now I can't choose between these two."
"How about you take all three of them for two and just promise to love them."
"That'll work."



 And that's how I ended up reading Weep, Congregation which somehow tugs my heart, and even though I don't understand it that well, it reminds me of something I can hardly explain. I can hardly explain most things in life, and in my honest opinion I don't even think that the phrasing in the poem is that great, but here:

Weep, Congregation

an angle with age lines at the corners of her
eyes and mouth  stumbles, almost
imperceptibly, as she walks into the light.
She gives a worn coin to the man on the
pavement who stopped quietly drumming
some Latin rhythm on an empty paint can.
She turns away and briefly remembers
soaring. At the intersection of Alpha and
Omega, green street signs glitter in the rain,
rusting, as the tinny silence continues.