About this time in June, as a lad, I asked, ‘Where did June go?’ Such are the halcyon days of summer. Days that stretch from early morning until bedtime. No muse, no fuss, no worries. The summer days march by without looking to the left or right. Prime Days have ended, and we have more stuff. Carbon Monoxide Detectors and shoes that fit a giant. A new grate for the Webber Grill. Kibble for Mylo. The government is operating with little thought. Until it rains on our parade, we pay no attention. Neva J was born 98 years ago on Monday.

We walk the same path yet seek differences between us. The rich and poor, the powerful and those who have no voice, travel together. Some of us imagine a crown while others seek a hat to protect them from the rain. I have often wondered what the smug Christian believes will be their response when they see the poorest of the poor standing next to them with the same agency as they have?

‘Well, bless your heart, I did not realize there were Christians in Haiti.’Isla said with a condescending air. ‘The President called your country a Shit Hole Country,’ Isla noted. ‘We Daughters of the American Revolution did not have any black folks in our group, you understand,’ Isla continued. ‘Actually, all of our friends were white except for our maid and gardener, salt of the earth people,’ Isla said with faux passion. ‘I see God must not feel like the President,’ Isla said softly.

We used to sing a song that said, ‘This world is not my home, I am just passing through, my treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.’ Treasures surround us. We all live under the same blue sky. No one is coming to extricate us from our trouble. We are the helpers who are in the building! The phone call is coming from within the house.

The poor man became rich. He forgot his poor days. He rewrote his story. He had never been poor. He never sought food and clothing from others. Those files had been removed from his mental file room. The Poor Man says,’ Those who have no homes and live on the street live there by choice; they need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps like I did.’

‘Who is that poor fellow with the ‘Highwater Pants’ he seems to have little yet works every day,’ Cashier said at the Grocery. ‘He walks everywhere he goes while his friends drive new cars and excel,’ the Village Observer noted. ‘He is a good Christian and works countless hours on his church building, but he is certainly not rich like the Preacher preaches you will be if you are a Christian,’ the Postmaster said.

‘The murderer is in the house,’ the Frightened American said. ‘We thought he was in the ‘Shit Hole’ countries only to discover we have embraced the Masked Ax Murderers and thought they were our friends.’