The Holy City

The Holy City

Once
I walked along
Queen Street
into the middle
of downtown Charleston
to the waterfront park
at the harbor.

As I ambled
the cobbled street
past Poogan's Porch,
Mother Emmanuel,
and Meeting Street
I thought
about the Civil Rights Movement history
of Charleston.

I saw tourists huddled
around tour guides
hearing stories
of the places
and people
of the old city.

Patrons of pubs wobbled
with their arms around each others shoulders enjoying their pints of beer,
their glasses of wine.

Reservers of restaurants huddled
In small groups together
waiting for their shrimp and grits,
their low country boil.

A young black man sat
in solitude
on top of a table
on the harbor walkway
weaving flowers and crosses
out of sweet grass
in the way
of the Gullah people.

I wondered
that sixty some-odd years ago
J. Judge Waties Waring heard
Marshall’s plea
and was despised
by the high society folk
of the city
and was offered
a one way train ticket
out of the state
by the South Carolina legislature.

Do I still ask the old questions -
What does it mean to be human?
How can we weave a more human world
for everyone?

I wonder.

I breathe.

I hope.