Brunk Revival, under the white country canvas tent,
center stage, a fast talking preacher with a wide constant smile,
on a hot and holy July evening,
no wind under the big top,
at eight years
I could feel my mother’s fervent passion
for me to answer the altar call.
I clutched, with sweaty hand, a plastic key chain
the word STANLEY in red letters written on one side,
my theatrical prop to spiritual theatre.
Thinking only of “Stanley and Livingstone”
in the darkest of Africa, as I walked the light years
over a carpet of wooden chips, to the front.
Later, I realized Stanley was a news reporter.
My Stanley keychain, an ad for tools available
at Home Hardware.
In my mother’s simple loving way,
during my backsliding university days,
implored, “But you’ll go to church?”
Or, on the day I reluctantly told my parents
I would marry Anglican.
They sat in stunned silence.
“Just live with her,” my mom suggested.
She was right, as mom's are.
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