It was an old Church
With stained masonry and
Pews that needed renovating;
In the back, near the alley,
A creaky staircase led up to
Cobwebby rooms crammed with
Antique furniture and memorabilia;
I searched every nook and cranny that week
(Pretending to be one of the Hardy boys)
Looking for keys,
And secret passages,
Or any other kinda cool stuff
I could stash in a cigar box

It was a time
I learned about VOICES,
Mostly under maples filled
With sparrows, on an old bench,
Listening and watching people
Shuffling past with groceries,
Or to meet with friends,
Or coming home from work,
Or from a pot house up the street
(Stumbling and cursing)
And mostly all ignoring the
Greeter smiling from the stoop
Handing bulletins out for Sunday service

Cattycorner, across the street,
A strident street vendor was hawking
Cigarettes and cheap souvenirs to passers-by
And cars entering the expressway

And the new music director
(Once a palmy recording artist)
Was fast losing patience with
(What he’d coined)
‘Harmonic inconsistencies’ in the choir-
“Your intonation is off,” he barked
“What do you want?” I heard her quetch
“Just sing your notes, that’s what I want,” he returned
“I’m here to help the church, not please you,” she spit back
“That’s good because you’re not,” he countered angrily

And at the same time
Some frowsy woman was
Maundering and thumbing through
A magazine at the bus stop; eyes skittish
She would, every so often, take a swig from a
Bottle I was convinced was not root beer

And from an open window
On the third floor
I heard Pastor
On the phone
(Huffish and words briny)
Complaining about squeaking pews, and
Walls in need of paint, and wanting to find a
New music director, and pitiful tithing, and
A budget that needed fixing and the troubling
Increase of gossip at Saturday functions,

And as I was about to turn away,
As if by magic,
A sudden swarm of sparrows
Began flitting near the same window,
And all of them singing
In harmony together,
(Without directors or budgets or controversy)
And when he saw them he stopped, and,
After hanging up, he remained at the
Window listening with peaceful countenance
To something I was certain he had never
Known before in this old church

richard lloyd cederberg

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