1992, I find myself alive
In a house built high, by a man
Whose only joy had been his wife.
And when she died, she took with her the light within his eyes.
Leaving the cold remains of his golden heart, now fossilized.
And every week he’d buy a ticket, steady wishing
In the face of hopelessness, in spite of all his wisdom
That he might win a lottery, by chance,
If he can’t join his gilded angel
In her counter-clockwise, bayou dance.
Jingling pocket change, by the kitchen sink.
Always whistling, always listening,
Forgiving my stupid mistakes.
But never came, for him, a lucky day;
He eased into that long night,
And when the Master’s Hand
Had laid its claim,
The man’s own heart attacked,
And laid to waste
A lover in his tribute, tried and true.
But not before he’d taught us
How to move.
And we loved him.
He never raised his voice
To shut hers down,
And he held her tight,
When the church burned to the ground.
In the land of the Klan,
A man of color, from far away
Gave love untold, so long beyond her days
To a pale young woman, selling her bread, door-to-door.
He showed that girl what love is worth,
And he never failed to put her first.
She braved the day, and she came to prove
What love, in the face of hatred can do.
Thank God for Saint Joseph.
You taught me how to truly move.
Thank God for sweet Saint Joseph,
I pray you are whistling with your baby, in the blue…
In your counter-clockwise bayou dance.