The Concrete Block Box

This box is painted white and stands

Against the colored world that wants to stain.

A doctrine bundle tied with texts withstands

The onslaught.  Pure, the walls reject the strain

Of U. S. Highway Number One so crude

In stretch from Maine to bridges over Keys.

The tiny cube rebuffs the world, its lewd,

Profane non-prophet secularities

Like passon’s operas, but Johnny in

His blindness waits each Saturday to hear

The broadcast from the Met, a sexy sin

When sermons fade and Verdi rules his sphere.

  Too neatly dressed the church clerk dreams of boys

    And after Sabbath gasping jazzy noise.

~ Phillip Whidden