Up a canyon
Eucalyptus grove,
It’s a back entrance
To the mission.
More contemporary
Than Catholic, but still
Tile steps, roses
Smiling, lining
The garden. Hedges
Encircling the holy
Of Holies. Brass
Candlesticks, a
Black piano
Himself a reverend,
Starched suits
Perfectly pressed
At the knees, and
A flickering glow in
A world of faces.
And my childish excitement,
A bold boredom,
My sweet memories
As such, still today,
Are nothing more
Than the donuts.
A Different Kind Of Speaking 