vespers

the same man always waits at the bus stop. no matter what time or day. his presence – perpetual. and when i arrive, he clasps his hands in front of his chest. bows in my direction as if in prayer. some holy recognition of my presence. every time. the same ritual. and i smile. acknowledge. look him directly in the eyes. catch the spark that lights the lamp behind all the reasons that he remains and that i go. he releases the pose – slips back into a world in which i no longer exist. marks the time by swaying forward. back. some days, god, i swear i can almost hear the measure of the music. convince myself that one universal beat exists – the connecting power of the metronome. some days -- when the screeching brakes from the passing buses or the loud sounds of nearby construction cause him to reach up with two shaking hands – bend at the waist – motion as if to cover his ears – i wonder if anyone knows that he’s there. waiting. i wonder what i would do if he weren't.