Gospel and Guacamole

This poem is dedicated to my lovely Sundays with my dad, when we I choose to head over to Maria's Taco Xpress:


Picture that building on South Lamar,
Where a paper mache woman greets you with open arms,

And the smell of Tex-Mex drifts up, out the doors.
Line up, order tacos, which I'm sure you'll adore.

But don't stand inside or you'll look like a loon-
Grab a seat outdoors, the service starts at noon.

It's a typical Sunday - but not a typical church,
Here there's singing and dancing out on the porch.

That blazing Austin heat won't stop the congregation.
Grab some shade and a fan, they've made a few accommodations.

And when the pastors starts to speak - in the form of a lead singer
You'll see you've hit the jackpot, you've won a chicken dinner.

And then that heat won't really matter
You'll take in all that music in it's quick repeating pattern.

You'll probably feel the need to tap your feet
Or that beat will get to you and you'll have to leave your seat.

And join the group up front and center,
But here the dancing won't make you a sinner.

As I said before, it's not typical,
But that's not at all critical.

Because here  is Hippie church!
A reason for free spirits to leave their perch.

And take to dance floors and eat good food!
No matter how bad your Saturday, it's hard to be in a bad mood.

And on this certain Sunday, after the last beat
And after we'd all had our fill to eat.

"That was excessive. Thank you everyone."
And just like that, the service is done.

Riley Welch