Navy blue hoodie, hood up, feeling hot and sweltering, despite the cold.
The young men and women on the street, laughing; I feel so fucking old.
It’s a rainy evening, and I walking to the theatre, for a tale already told.
Is it rubbish, is it nostalgia, is a way to suck up money, no choice so bold.
The street preacher shouts and screams, and people scowl at him, or ignore.
The stick of damnation of sin, the carrot of eternity on that heavenly shore.
He howls about gays and sex and woman outside their place, Babylon Whore.
He’s not here to convert, but to hate, count ever scowl and figure, God keeping score.
The young woman at the ticket office is sighing, tired on her feet, still kind.
I ask for the ticket, the latest iteration of some long ago thing, the hive mind
still says it has meaning and grace, but I want to leave that world so far behind.
I don’t know where else to go, what else to you, and that’s how childhood binds.