dialects of dogma in the corner
coffee shop - I recognized them
too easily, as an expatriate
heard clearly in the crowd across the square,
where I’d rather be blending in,
forgetting my mother tongue, speaking
an unknown language, written
by the dust of my boots, learned
through the salt of my skin, weathered
as the pages of my Bible are worn
and consumed alone
with God in the corner
booth of this coffee shop