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Across
the
street
from
where
I
work,
a
church
with
a
steeple
high
in
the
air,
a
cross
on
top,
takes
up
a
whole
block.
Seems
to
be
empty
most
of
the
time.
A
little
farther
down
the
street,
a
jail
needing
paint,
new
shingles,
squats
on
a
measly
plot.
Seems
to
be
packed
all
the
time.
My
father,
a
staunch
hellfire
and
brimstone
believer,
said
they
oughta
take
them
prisoners
to
that
big
ol'
church,
lock
'em
up,
hold
'em
there
till
they
repent.
~Copyright
©
1993
Ruth
Gillis~
First
published
in
Potpourri
November
1993
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