A seat for my faith

I don’t visit often,

the sweet morning moon.

Still running on the twinkle from the night before.

6 a.m. is when you switch your shift—

tucking another continent to bed,

never taking a day off.

I counted seven different bird sounds

hailing the morning that’s being groomed on the horizon.

Thrushes, a wren,

and rockin’ robin—tweet, tweetle dee.

A little sparrow screeches farewell

as my solace comes to its end

interrupted by bus fumes,

where the wild things are

and the orange shorts lay—

or were they pink?

Haunting me at the curb.

Across Highland Street and MLK,

a sidewalk camp.

Commonly known as, a bus shelter.

Dirty fingernails and meth-mouth

-the gospel of the city.

In transit, is the blue bench and my faith.

Divinely reserved for me.

My lunch-tote on the seat next to me and

conviction on the other.

Turbulent and fragile.

But what is faith

if it’s not disturbed?

Clutching the rail

like it might fly off

any second.