Praise God in His sanctuary; Psalm 120
between my mother and my son,
who scoot tokens on paper cards.
Voices rise whenever someone
arrives, as if returning from a cruise.
Willy, sit! How’s the shoulder?
Static hums from hearing aids
in the humid, carpeted room.
Souls condense on windows.
We’ve been here two hours, postponed
the market, the shoe store. B-18, I-9
the mic. Praise His
Mom extracts cookie lumps from her purse,
scatters crumbs over our sleeves, lifts
her cheek for my son’s kiss.
D-1! Someone shouts, A win!
Praise Him with lute and lyre,
with dance and drum.
Ah….flutes my son, joining
the elders who sing out
with voices, reedy and abundant.