I even gave my life to Christ in their parking
lot. My soul a biscuit and His love
the pale gray gravy drizzled from above;
halfway to Damascus and my dogs’re barking,
top-10 country heralding my harking
to this savior I’ve been hearing of,
father, son, and son-begetting dove—
this asphalt that my toil and tears were marking
now sits below an HGTV’d sign,
shorn of its eponym and barrel, bland
and unoffensive, boring, woke—
could this, Oh Lord, be part of your design?
Like whispering Satan in the wild, is a brand
faith’s fathering acorn, I its oak?