Cloud of Praise

God is the only One
who's heard it all before,
every whisper tone tenor
in every Georgia juke joint
joining the jumble of julip glasses
and pay day smiles,
every under the breath grunt
of the pineboard piano player
counting his honeys and black worn keys,
the vocalisms of a fronting throat singer
that may have been golden or silver in youth
but has bronzed and brassed
with the crowds applause
or indifference.

"Why's the devil got all the good music?"
is the revivalist organist's accelerando.

"Well, he don't actually," is what God says
from the back corner booth
everything that has breath hanging on His 
every word. Rackety crickets pop
outside the window, crispy flying things
fry in zapper blowing under the porch awning.
Willow leaves whistle in their own night, 
nightingales prove the point in their black eyes
is a star from the far side of a cymbal ride
that has even the lamest feet tapping.

You want glory realized?

Trace the walking bass
to the blindless place in your heart
and the all seeing skirts of the dancers
that raise up the dust we came from
in a cloud of praise.