brother john

one of my simple poems from a simple mood.

Brother John

Brother John on Vestal Street
left his doors unlocked.
When the corner kids,
and the people over vents
in back of warm buildings,
heard the high bell,
at the Mission of Mercy,
they knew it was time to turn in.
Not to the mission,
but to Brother John's house.
He never insisted
on preaching the gospel.
He never really cared
who slept with whom.
He simply kept his door open,
and laid out some food.
Everyone that ate or slept there,
kept their own prayer.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

But it is crystal clear, bell-like, and Masters-esque in its simplicity, and it is wonderful.