Prayer To Allah
The softness of the tension of his skin
feeding on the earth
through layers of foreign concrete,
the pupil of his eye patient,
his soul crying with images, while wishing
to bring his family a better life, speaks.
He is sitting on the bench
at the bus stop–
hands together almost prayerfully–
with the promise of rain coming
faster than the bus. It seemed,
looking into the distance,
feeling the wind start to blow
the first gentle drops.
He had no umbrella,
no outer coat–
just a shirt and himself.
Obviously, he thought
that was enough.
I could see him somewhere else–
a mosque in the center of the city
surrounded by people
who knew each other’s family
for generations,
walking by each other
in long cotton clothing
and veils. Nodding, embracing,
the kissing of cheeks
in rain or shine,
just a moment before
being here, where
no one knows each other—anymore
or says hello at bus stops, but
even there things were not the same.
“How everyone pretends to have it together,
as if life can not unravel them—
like a ball of string
rolling across the floor—
with one swift push.”
He loved America, but
This he knew:
The apex of their arrogance
not feeling the edge
where even life’s face
can stare back at them—ugly—
or open doors
to existences
never given entry to,
sliding down hidden pathways
elaborately planned
inside a dream
held tight
under one’s skin
growing taunt and
loosing its pungency
like the earth
buried in concrete.
For him, this is how it was.