Cursed is the man who churches every Sunday and Wednesday. Who puts always 10% in the plate. Who never drinks or smokes. Whose Double Windsor is the envy of the other elders. Who holds staunchly to straight, republican virtues and locks his heavy doors at night so his entertainment center will not be stolen. He has insulated himself from his fears for so long that he can no longer cry. But constantly bites at his family in anger when anything threatens to wake up such uncertainty.
Blessed is the man who goes to AA meetings despite who he knows will find out. Who dearly loves the daughter he had out of wedlock and still opens the door to the clinic for her because she swore she’d abort it on her own. Who battles daily against a family tree of self-destruction And knows he has only one hope. And who offered his bed to the freezing vagabond That approached him on the street last night. But now he cries deeply, slumped against his dresser because this morning he woke And found his mother’s ring stolen, And because he knows even more will be taken And it will not stop until God opens wide all his doors and cleans out his whole heart.