Riding Between The Lines

With the top down they drive into a town
not marked on the map. They have known
of others who’ve followed the same route,
who speak of reaching a quaint little place
(no one can ever recall its name once they’ve left it)
where everything is painted white,
where, even in the middle of the night,
(how quickly darkness falls!)
an uneasy air of innocence glows.

Already they’re feeling guilty.
Having the top down is seeming ostentatious
and, as curtains twitch,
they sense they’re bringing something bad
with them that’s clearly contagious.

The only other visible vehicle is a fire engine.
Next to it is a pretty little tree.
And look, there are two pure white kittens
in the branches waiting to be rescued.

They halt outside the stark white church
and experience unease
and a pressure to get down on their knees
and pray.

The pretty little town is quiet as a mouse.

Is God really in that house?
Hard to believe!

But they’re afraid.
They step on the gas,
as others have done before them,
and leave.

And out comes the sun.

The little town breathes again,
imperceptibly.

Poem inspired by this wonderful song
God Is In The House