The Square
I am tired from my walk. I sit at the Square. Tourists everywhere, marveled by what I see as only red bricks and names. Olipop in hand. I feel American. You know- them, With their probiotic things. The sun is out. Dresses, skirts, and shorts Color spills everywhere. Across the street A fat man sits on a slab, Bible in hand shouting at passersby reciting Scripture: “Every knee shall bow, every tongue confess…” And he speaks of eternal life, the power of Salvation Romans 10:10 They throw glances. Another yells a Hallelujah back. I wonder, as they move, Does the Good News cling to them prickly and persistent, Like a thought you didn’t invite But can’t quite brush off? Do they recall him When they recount their trip? Back in their beds, jet-lagged and sunburned— Do they remember his voice? Or does it all blur?