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The Call

The Call, poetry by Greg Powell

The Call

on the block, i
was big greg, not
that I was so big
but little greg
was so little.
there was Poochie
and Ken and Oscar
who were sad
when we moved from
apartment reign
of roaches after
the fire. there was
Archie who had
a cool walk the world
called a limp. earl
who we called
Peanut Head. our
world, the block
in south shore that
had just turned black.
the block where we
had toy soldier and rock
fight wars. I remember
the slow jagged twirl
of the one busted my head
and made me see blood.
we raced popsicle sticks
down rivulet streams
draining into metal bars.
incinerated ant piles
with sun beams through
magnifying glass, and chased
spiders into their webs.
we invented fun
by conjuring worlds, on
the block. so early
one morning I came out
and Little Greg sitting crying
head folded into arms shaking
on concrete stoop curled
into himself. sat beside
him. tells me his daddy,
the professional gambler
who would show us his trains
in the basement, fell
this morning and heart
stopped beating and he dead.
I had nothing to say
so said nothing but then
God sat on concrete stoop
with. I felt Her tender
breath over us. binding
little beating hearts.
and to beat of hearts
little word fluttered
from tear glistened lips
now lost to the air and
the years. I remember
Little Greg looked up
at me or maybe at Her
and smiled. She spoke
to me still speaks to me:
go, and do this, always.

Photographs by Daniel Edeke, Pexels

The Call is part of a series by the author called Testimony Service.
You may also enjoy Communion on Broken Rocks