the car tools down the lane,
high above the river rushing below,
the windows are down, all the way down,
the sun shines diamonds on the river’s surface,
J. Coltrane and M. Davis swing wild,
preaching the gospel as perfectly as
J. Christ and J. the Baptist
did in the old days,
they howl like alley cats on
trash can lids, bleating perfect
synchronicity and mad wildness,
and all seems right in the world,
children laugh somewhere,
lovers kiss as though they would part forever,
old men breathe their last breath, content to finally go,
and M. D. and J. C. play on,
long after their horns have been silenced,
and somewhere J. C. and J. the B.
preach on too,
but their gospel is far more easily
misinterpreted.

Darrell Gahm

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-preachers/