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.  

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 stood

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

Judge J. Waties Waring heard

Thurgood 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.