Preacher Woman

I become a sermon
Not so much the words and pulpit pounding
I grew up with, but I cook a piece of heaven
Pad Thai, shop and play a “you matter,”
To the check-out girl who chats and recognizes
That I remember her story, maybe she is the preacher today
I touch the old woman who dresses in wild colorful
Clothes and sits across from Trader Joes, I wake her
Gently and place a twenty in her hands, walk across
Get a red cart, look up and she is waving, though she
Has never spoken a word to me in my several weeks
Of saying here you go or merry Christmas or hope you like it
I empty the dishwasher for the millionth time, not my job
In the house of cards where I live but I say all right, I still love you
Though you dirty everything and never help, like the
Sun I’ll keep shining here but I’m writing too in my room
While the drama goes on out there, my sermon to myself
Today, listen, keep on when every distraction threatens
Your real work, keep listening and pounding these keys.



2 thoughts on “Preacher Woman

  1. I think it was Francis of Assisi who said, “If you’re walking somewhere to preach, make your walking your preaching.”

    “…my job/In the house of cards where I live…” Wowza, such an obvious metaphor, yet I don’t think I’ve seen it used before. Again, the obvious being sometimes too obvious.

    Thank you for reminding me/us what “Your real work” is.


  2. Ed thanks for your comment. I do love your voice in comment and look forward to what you say and take it to heart. It is so hard to be a writer with other work to be done, which might be always. Thanks for being a fellow traveler.


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