Words

The young African boy stumbles over the Supper of the Lord’s words—
in the Promised Land: a new gospel.  
The man in the dark suit signals, again.  
Again. And yet again, while we in the pews squirm.  
Just a visitor, I ponder words like spirit and letter and
tender mercies, torrents inside. 
Finally, His Body as bread is passed and the congregation is washed 
in a wave of relief— 
though the young boy’s head stays bowed. 
Another smoothly speaks the words of remembrance of His Blood.
And it is done. I feel yet parched 
and only you, a stranger here, slide silently from your seat 
to follow him out the door as the Priesthood take their places 
back with the rest of us. One can never know  
if your words, or his burning tears, 
will make a difference.