I slide in, nudging a man as the bus lurches,
pull my bag up on my lap and hear
him singing — singing with a woman — clear
and quiet harmony without the church’s
echo: Rock a My Soul. And from our perches,
we neighboring birds who listen, we revere
the clustering of tone on tone. The mirror
of the driver winks back as he searches:

I catch his eye, ashamed it’s not my song
but I don’t know the words, couldn’t hum along
even if I had the nerve, which I haven’t got.
A hush, quiet as an empty church parking lot.
Good way to start the day, she says at last.
Amen, he says, and nods, Amen to that.