The afternoon counter he stands behind,
A baker awaiting the seven days’ chimes
He’s reminded of beauty, his long life
And to the blue skies he stands to rise,
With tears of joy that stream from his eyes.
He’s an Englishman, born in the West End, he says.
“Like to go back again, but LA’s my home, and when I’s lost it took me in.”
“Into the home of the good people I’d met.”
“Been blessed,” he says. “Used to sleep in an Oldsmobile, ‘fore put a roof o’er my head.”
“Today’s Palm Sunday,” I hear a patron say.
“I went to church when I was a boy,” says the Englishman.
“I never went,” says I.
He says he’s got sour memories.
“No perhaps it was not for me,” he stares off and he breathes, saying still “but I believe.”
And the sun rises majestic and penetrating,
Through the glass in soft afternoon beams;
And it lights the Sunday scene,
Made sacred by good friends and warm company.