Worship

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 smile.

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.