Tall is Tremont Temple

On street level just to the left

there is a stone façade,

a carved nameplate streaked

with decades of grime:

Christian Information Center.

Secular Mondays I pass by on foot,

scurrying from commute to work,

later from work to commute.

It is always deserted: no pulse,

no vibrance, no rousing gospel singing

I think must be there on sacred Sundays.

I wonder about this place, ponder its purpose.

Is it an information center for Christians,

full of biblical tracts and assessing glances

to ensure only the righteous access?

Is it a center with information about Christianity,

open to all -- in fact covetous of those

not saved, but might yet be?

I like to imagine it dispensing

all sorts of information

according to true Christian values.

I can just see the swell of humanity

on the early Sunday sidewalk:

Some jockey for position, cutting in line.

Dapper men, women dressed to the nines

tap well-heeled shoes, a rhythm section out of synch.

Young necks crane with curiosity, boredom.

Tattoos peek through the shirts of several women,

while others wear their hijab without worry.

Canes keep more than a few from toppling;

there are at least five barely awake

so soon after Saturday night.

Then there is movement

in the window of the CIC:

A mild-mannered man,

wire-framed glasses,

glowing caramel skin,

the hint of Haitian in his hum.

This sole staffer emerges.

In his hand a jumbled assortment of

gossip, time-saving recipes,

current events, ambitious poems,

dull cartoons, stinging editorials,

advice for frugal travel abroad,

and tips for the stock market.

The crowd hushes.

He walks the line,

appraising them all:

old and young,

able and stumbling,

linen and polyester.

His is an amble relaxed, intent.

He halts, distributes

the collection in his hand:

Of course, it is the meekest

who inherits the information,

the poorest most preferred

for this smattering of earthly news.

Yet it is not only the lamb,

who receives the message,

but also the lion,

and if I’m not mistaken,

there is also enough

for the leper.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston