Preacher

by Nathan Baker

Folks on the street called him Preacher
He was a loner, a social misfit bounced
One too many times on his head as a kid,
He had his good qualities and his bad.

Well past his fortieth birthday when our
Paths first crossed back in the early eighties
He was lean and rock solid in physique
An old infantry soldier, he stayed in shape.

He had studied for ministry after service
Obtaining a degree in Biblical studies,
And once thumped leather with black suits;
Still preached a bit on street corners

When he wasn't praying over winos
Down at the Gospel mission on Central,
Or casting demons out of the possessed
Selling favors for dimes downtown

Preacher was good with his hands and
Quick with a knife too, he was aging a bit
So he toted a hawk-bill in his right hip pocket,
An old electrician's knife, honed razor sharp

Preacher was shepherd of the street people
He saved his first soul one night when thugs
Tried to dissect a lamb for anthropological study
Poor little lost one was dumpster diving

Seeking pasture behind a lounge on the boulevard
It was a territorial thing else the thugs had a real
Liking for stale peanuts and moldy nacho chips
Because they were about to get busy when

Preacher walked around the corner talking loudly
To himself about serpents and the Garden of Eden;
Words rolling off his tongue like a rock star on acid
Stars melted into a red flash of color as his knife

Scored across flesh whittling deep to bone
Two of four, in orders to save his one lost lamb,
Preacher did what he did without remorse.
Later paramedics arrived to cart the men away

Preacher watched from a storm drain culvert
His eyes never leaving the scene until the last
Emergency vehicle had left the area.
He lived like a shadow, part of the river fog.

He spent most of his uptime underground
Cross-Creek cemetery became his duomo.