The homeless guys,
with their parked shopping carts
and scraggly, gray beards,
nod as he speaks.

"You can cling to the cross,
with its dried blood and splinters,
or you can come dancing with me."

I feel safest
with my face pressed against rough wood,
cheeks bleeding.
When I suffer,
do I not have value?
Self-denial
has been my salvation.

The homeless guys
rummage through old grocery bags
looking for their dancing shoes.
They're smiling.

If they can dance,
why not I?

Text and
image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.