OLD MEN SINGING

This Sunday morning, I’ll sit up close
and listen to the old men sing.
These high-pitched hymns weren’t written
for those sweet baritone and
thick, rich bass voices.
Maybe they could reach those notes
when as boys their voices squealed,
letting go of the tire tree-swing
as they pitched into the river.
But those days you couldn’t get a pair
of Sunday shoes on those calloused feet
that ran all summer barefoot.
Once they realized the pretty girls
got gussied up with lacey gloves and
tiny white purses, the boys struggled
into starched white shirts and fancy ties,
craning their necks to catch a peek
at the new girl in town. But now I’m content
to remember those days as a smile
breaks out on my face each time I hear
“How Great Thou Art” sung by old men
auditioning for Saint Peter.