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God Bless America

 In a neighborhood of lawns,

tended by immigrants mostly illegal,

SUVs in front of Starbucks,

a pond with swans and ducks,

and a pretty stone bridge, 

a closed K-Mart, an empty

meat market marring a strip mall,

there’s a soup kitchen

in the basement of a church—

whites and blacks, Hispanics,

families with babies and toddlers,

youngsters—Peter Pan and Spiderman shirts, 

single men with rough hands, older couples, young men—

some pierced ears and noses, latest sneakers;

six men make a Bible verse their home.

Some come in a shelter’s rusty van,

a car trailing mufflers, packed

with trash bags of possessions

brought others; a few

hitchhiked.

All sit at tables, where

students from high school,

placed silverware and napkins—

their required community work.

When “Melody Makers’” Mike, plays, “My Way,”

a white haired man, frayed flannel shirt,

hears Sinatra, “I've lived a life that's full...

Regrets, I've had a few.”

He looks down at his hands,

shakes his head sadly from side to side.

A woman, two little girls in ponytails,

and a son with a torn jacket,

smirks when he sings,

“I planned each charted course.”

A middle-aged man in a dirty sweatshirt hears, 

“I've had my … share of losing,” and nods.

Kevin, the manager, thanks them for coming;

a heavy-set man, gray dreadlocks,

asks God’s blessing on the cooks and the servers.

When Mike asks them to rise, they slowly stand

questions framing their faces;

he proclaims a moment of silence, “for all

who gave their lives

protecting our freedom,

helping others be free,”

then tells them to sing,

“God Bless America.” A few join in;

a homeless man, holes in his sneakers, winces

at “my home sweet home.”