Grandfather and the Evangelist

A tent with a platform and with folding chairs,
a different church than the one where we belonged,
Grandfather held my hand, said I would hear
a deep-voiced man climb up the golden stairs.

Grandfather said I ought to hear a preacher
who sanctified himself with anecdotes
of Me and God and sold religion to all
like a medicine man, not like a prophet and teacher.

Grandfather said it was time I saw how sinners
can be relieved of guilt and dollars too.
‘‘Woe unto you’’ was the fare Grandfather said
the saved sheep ate before their Sunday dinners.

I blushed and trembled when the big voice thundered,
‘‘The devil lifts the skirt and fills the glass,
show him no mercy and reap your reward in Heaven.’’
(And would they lift skirts there and drink, I wondered.)

He had me all mixed up. I couldn’t find
the reason to be saintly here on earth
and take your pleasure when you got to Heaven;
it seemed to me he had this on his mind.

Grandfather said as he took me by the hand,
‘‘Experience is the way you understand.’’