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