I want to sing out loud but can’t
because I’d frighten others
on the train if I started.
So I lift myself in my seat and hum, high in my throat,
to the drone of the heater and the whine of traction.
I must look odd: a joy.
I feel the lines wrinkle on my forehead.
Thank you, thank you.
I want to pray with words but that would look strange –
like men on street corners:
they clutch their microphones to prove their sanity.
Prayer: I’m human, affirmed.
So I close my eyes to listen to you.
Holy, holy, holy.
I want to slip my knees to the dirty blue vinyl,
and bow silently.
They would hurt, but I don’t care.
There isn’t space: two legs and a linen carrier fill the void and I’m
stuck on my seat with the heater pounding.
He who was and is, and is to come.