POEM - Revival Season

Love’s hand to my head, palms

Hot sweaty and callused

I think I have found

A working man’s evangelist

That fixes his own trucks

And helps put up the tent

Has a wife and kids

Raises dogs in the off season

Thinks this makes a difference

Like his daddy told him,

Like his momma believed

With the faith of a Southern woman.

Love rides the hallelujah circuit

On the back of the Good Book

His striped tabernacles consume empty lots.

Curiosity gathered this skeptic in

Here to expose a quack, I find

There is no lie; this is no medicine show,

Found power in his roughed out hand,

Burning the fear of God in to my forehead

It’s a trick I think just in time

To miss discovering what faith means;

And just keep my skepticism alive

And just enough of Love rubbed off

To make me visit an empty lot,

Where Amens once shot at the stars

To reprimand them for their vanity.