At first I thought she was a nun
but she'd just taken a scrap of blanket
and folded it perfectly about her head.
In the seat beside me
the feline stink communicated,
a cloud in which she was hid.
The white tendril hairs from her chin
slid through the invisible jelly air
that keeps the non-smiles fixed
and became the wires
for a writing hand for a while.
I couldn't shake the revulsion and so
I became a provisional worshipper
of her mystery.
Today I can type an Amen in
and a Yes with imaginary ink.