Lukewarm

By John Blase | August 21, 2012 |

I was raised in a lukewarm house where things

had a tendency to come and go but some stayed,

put down roots, and became memories a boy’s

mind stuffed in its pockets like receipts.

As a preacher’s son I knew well the exile’s thought

about being spewed out of God’s mouth for such

tepidity, but I also knew the Revelator wrote of

blooded-bridles and dragon-tails so I heard his words

as those of a dreamer, of a boy much like me.

In a house not too hot or not too cold (maybe just right)

I could carry a tune in the youth choir on Sunday evenings

then Monday morning carry a spiral-bound notebook

covered with Farrah Fawcett in that only begotten

red swimsuit for after all, I believed, she was an angel.

If God should’ve chosen to spit me out there was nowhere

I could be spit apart from His presence, not the wings of

the morning nor the uttermost parts of the sea. I learned

this mercy, for I was raised in a lukewarm house.