The Holy City

I walk along 

Queen Street 

into the middle 

of downtown Charleston 

to the waterfront park 

at the harbor.  

I amble

the cobbled streets

past Poogan's Porch, 

Mother Emmanuel,

and Meeting Street,

the Holy City.

I see tourists huddle

around tour guides 

hearing stories 

of places 

and people 

of the old town.

Patrons of pubs wobble

with their arms around

 each others shoulders 

enjoying their pints of beer,

their glasses of wine.

Revelers of restaurants huddle

In small groups 

together

waiting for shrimp and grits,

low country boil,

she crab soup.

A young Black man sits

in solitude 

on top of a table 

on the harbor walkway 

weaving flowers and crosses 

out of sweet grass.

Sixty some odd years ago,

J. Judge Waties Waring 

heard

Thurgood Marshall’s plea

and was despised 

by high society folk.

He was offered 

a one way train ticket 

out of the state 

by the South Carolina legislature

and told

never to return.

I still ask 

the old questions - 

What does it mean 

to be just?

How can I weave a 

more human world?

Dum spiro spero

While I breathe, I hope

- Trevor Scott Barton, The Left Foot, 2022