Poetica Magazine

Praise God in His sanctuary; Psalm 120

I’m wedged

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

booms the mic. Praise His name!

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.