Treasure Street, by Tom Mukasa

Treasure Street

When we came to the last part,

a fire whose smoke,

was contained

and blew heaven bound,

incense that filled our nostrils,

was a reassurance,

a constant reminder,

that for generations,

this liturgical procession,

will forever be protected,

it took place,

at the expansive vestibule,

whose immense gilded doors,

and the vicinity,

were patrolled by police,

on this very night,

perhaps a long weary hermit,

or someone who wanted the crowd,

that spilled out into the street,

to mingle or commune,

with his mountain bike,

was bundled up,

put in the police car,

meanwhile our service,

was now coming to its final end,

we left for home,

knowing we shall comeback,

to repeat the same act,

assured that we are protected,

those disturbing the peace,

bundled up by the police.