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DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE:
Gerard's Journey to Joplin
Before the Tornado
Oh, the wonder of it! Even the names
Of the little pubs are a glory-journey!
Wendy’s—puffing my spirit up in cumulous-curious,
Zephyring the scent of potatoes over
The vast mystic highway. Macdonald’s—calling
Clans and thoughts of plaids red and russeter
Than the dark dawn over Hadrian’s Wall,
Recalling pipes like angel-hawks squawking
Out God’s muster in picnic-places and
Refectories. There too is Grace in August’s inferno,
The air itself a baptism in the bath of God.
There is a moisture I have never imagined,
And even in empty lots where the walkways crack
With the uppushing roots of elms, there is life.
And more life—vines and mosses, mimosa sprouts
And catalpa beans, dangling like the fingers of Christ.
In sagging roofs and crumbling brick, the Spirit
Her very Self weighs down with an instress
So stimulating that even the cats seem caught in prayer--
How can the humans help but be holy?
Of the little pubs are a glory-journey!
Wendy’s—puffing my spirit up in cumulous-curious,
Zephyring the scent of potatoes over
The vast mystic highway. Macdonald’s—calling
Clans and thoughts of plaids red and russeter
Than the dark dawn over Hadrian’s Wall,
Recalling pipes like angel-hawks squawking
Out God’s muster in picnic-places and
Refectories. There too is Grace in August’s inferno,
The air itself a baptism in the bath of God.
There is a moisture I have never imagined,
And even in empty lots where the walkways crack
With the uppushing roots of elms, there is life.
And more life—vines and mosses, mimosa sprouts
And catalpa beans, dangling like the fingers of Christ.
In sagging roofs and crumbling brick, the Spirit
Her very Self weighs down with an instress
So stimulating that even the cats seem caught in prayer--
How can the humans help but be holy?
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