A Balm In Gilead

At 7:05, driving to work,
the road signs flashing by me
like leaves from Kerouac,
the rich, mellifluous  baritone
of the Reverend Bob Cook,
my companion of the early light,
flowed like honey from my radio.
He made life simple and sweet,
Reach out to someone in need today. 
His mother died giving birth to him,
his father his beacon. I could hear
his voice cracking like egg shells
as he aged. Then one day a stranger
announced  he died.
                                 

I wept alone,
the girders of the GWB his cathedral,
the blinding sun his stained glass window.

Walk with the King today,
I whispered, and be a blessing.