The green wooden cross sits atop the majestic church; as majestic as a run-down, paint chipped shack can get. The roof screams of tear, of a harsh autumn, or twenty-one. The walls quiver with the slightest breeze; even the pastor’s flatulent causes a stir. The sun shines in the distance, glistening against whatever reflectance the worn wooden crucifix can produce. Heavenly, it seems, with the right angle of luminance; a signal of the one’s watch over his place of worship, or a typical feat of solar emissions. I wonder.
The priest sits across the entrance steps, elderly and discouraged; hope lost. What good is worship amidst high crime rates and unending poverty? He gazes outwards looking for an answer, into the narrow street as the train passes by, wondering.