Late Sunday

it’s sunday, the first day

of our mutual friend’s

african and african

american film festival

here on america’s morning,

which is africa’s night before

he said he’d bring me programs

i missed his visit

8 p.m. your time

11 a.m. mine

pews populated hands

meeting hugs as greetings

drums beating choir

singing congregation

praying pastor praising

after the service i got the

programs he left at my door

the day of your departure

had he and i crossed your mind

one last time as you began your flight?

or was that fate? neither one of us

knew you were late––that sunday.