On a pot-filled dirt road
	Stands the church of my youth
My memories, though, do not speak of religion
	Rather, the scenes played out there
Busting from the basement as Sunday School ends
	And running the gauntlet of smoking Deacons
The chill on my spine
	As Brother Jones rose with the spirit
The pitchers of Kool-Aid
	Never mixed right
The musty bathroom
	That smelled of Urine cakes
The memories seem like
	A hand missing a finger
I ask you to stop
	Name the best memory
The new girl
	Who became my wife

Roy Richard 
December 2024	
Written in a poetry workshop taught by Sarah Carson