To the man praying on the bus—or maybe you
are sleeping, your breath a hum, chin
knocking your chest to the road’s curves—

You, silent, transfigured in
solitude. What do you ask for?
Most rest without thought

But you pray. Tell me.
I want you to open your eyes and speak of
unseen things.

Briefly, you do.

The woman with the purple head wrap,
a mushroom cap, stands up. You nod
and close your eyes again.

I cannot pretend to know what you pray for,
but like all prayers, I imagine yours round
into safe safe safe—our human hymns.

And aren’t we like God,
praying our prayers into green leather seats
and purple clouds.

march 2015