Thursday, sad wet morning, 
reading the Gospels on my way to work.

I’d been doing that all year: waiting for the bus
on the front stoop’s top step,

making my way to the same back seat,
balancing the thermos between my feet,

reading through the trip
though it was short,

so that each day I progressed
just a few brief pages.

Saint Mark through May,
Saint John by August.

Dawn, the sun going up
over Spring Garden.

Dusk, the sun going down.

What did I learn?
The bus I took one way

took me home the other.
My belief did not deepen.

But Sundays I’d shake the dust
from the dog’s rug

out the open window
overlooking the boulevard, then lie down

beside him on the floor. I was trying to live
as though someone else was watching.