AT THE QUIKSAK ON THIS FRENCH-NAMED AVENUE

The rant of the radio’s AME preacher, chanting "The Lord loves us!"
(can’t you just hear him swaying: and the mighty surge, AMEN!)
exhorts the stout proprietess and her two sons, eight and ten, from sin.

Both boys, bopping a little, sleepy still, sip at their first Cokes
of the morning. Pepsi is not sold here. But Vienna sausages,
crackers, 18 labels of beer, full complement of

name tobacco brands. So you can choose. Over the door,
of course, it says, What Would Jesus Do: Over the roar
of a Buick’s muffler bapbapblapping uphill, Mama’s most courteous,

instantly shift-counts the right change back - "Ma’am, this was too much!"
Sweetly she doles direction to a white woman,
a stranger, too. Wraps us warm-palms upraised, exulting -

in the gift of gospel and her golden smile.