Scant yards away the asphalt stews beside
a shell that crowds this well-heeled thoroughfare.
Imagine faces leathered by sun-parched air,
strong hands in search of one more glory ride.
There must have been complaints--implied
by any holy house deprived of prayer.
Perhaps the deacons should have been austere
enough to ward off risk of patricide.

Next door, a poodle grooming service thrives.

Across the street, insurance limits loss.
So strange to see a stained glass sacrifice.
Here every other enterprise survives.
Yet grace still lives within a peeling cross,
and no one can complain about the price.

From A Poetry Break (Ocean Publishing, 2004)
Used with the author’s permission.