I sat next to God at a bus stop tonight,
cold, wet, musty and old.
Too nervous to move, I stared at the deck. He poked his finger into a cigarette pack,
rustling for a Marlboro — stuck.
With the cough of a dead man, he asked for a light. “I’m sorry, I quit,”
Said softly as if trying not to wake him.
After an awkward beat, I focused back on the deck. Probing further as if to paint my picture — eyes narrow,
He pushed against the bench back, stretched and sighed.
His hand scraped up his chin from a sweat-streaked neck.