The little girl I pass wrinkles up
her face as though to cry.
Her straight brown hair is captured high
in pigtails and her bright green dress
and shorts are summerish
and match the sandals on her feet and I
can't help but notice all the beads
blue and green that decorate
(shaped like seeds)
the slimness of her throat and neck.
A voice over the intercom requests:
"We have child lost, named Dana Kleck
at the information desk. Will her mother please
come pick her up," and I think
"Mother? What if her father
brought her to this mall
after all?"

And the little girl, lips a pucker
turns away and standing there
right behind where she just stood
glancing sideways at me, undercover
of Charisma, is a hood
and I think, watching him in rocks and mink
what sickness is this "Radical Praise"
on the cover, with Fred Hammond,
what fallacy, what mortal man of days
can say that worship has come back
cool in shades
and dressed in black.