Baptism on a Sunday Race Day in Daytona

It wasn’t a river    
just a pool,
more of a hotub,
set off from the sanctuary—
and when I was eased 
into  the water
I didn’t see God 
in the streams above.

And I didn’t see her 
lost in the thunder 
of the racetrack 
just beyond the church. 

She was beyond
my line of sight,
soaking up congratulations 
from the congregation.

The pastor gave me 
a gentle pat on my back,
shook my hand, three times,
handed me a towel 
and welcomed me to the flock.

I was just another sinner saved
and left to go his own way,
certain in the faith 
that God will provide. 

She said she would meet 
me back at her place
after the potluck.

I wrang the towel  
of every last drop
and  handed it 
back to her.  

I walked back to 
my old white Civic,
turned it over 
and felt the
cool Jesus breeze 
of the A/C hit my face.

The voice inside 
told me to do the 
first thing I heard
on the radio.

Ray Charles 
in his blindness
crooned to me:  

“Hit the road Jack 
and don't you come back
No more, no more, no more, no more.

Hit the road Jack 
and don't you come back
No more.”