North Beaching It
“Do not enter the sanctuary,” read the sign. No joke!
Ornate Catholic sanctuaries are not for the common folk.
The lady at the café assured us that “Magic is real.”
She’d been researching hidden traditions over her meal.
An Afghani rug salesman gave us candy treats
and a warm greeting,
as we roamed the streets.
We ascended the stairs of Vesuvio,
lost ourselves in conversation,
and watched a street fiddler from on high.
On the bar it read,
“T’was a woman who drove me to drink,
and I never had the decency to write her and thank her.”
In the window of the bookstore,
was an ironic sign of warning:
Books yield dangerous thoughts,
and firemen will kindly dispose of the whole lot.
The possibilities were a volcano of infinity,
as we walked in the footsteps of artists and beatniks,
drinking in the atmosphere of legends,
and renewing our spirits for the journey ahead.
I walked in a gaggle of commuters to my car in Soma,
witnessed the downtrodden sleeping in unfortunate comas
on sidewalks, bus stops, and tents,
and felt grateful for the bed that awaits me.
Earlier I’d parted with a few lousy cents,
to a bearded gentleman sitting cross legged on the street,
but even my mitzvot aren’t enough, you see.
Man and God need to unite so all can be equal and free.