Little Prayer

The platform smells like smoke. The Q-train’s late.
The day is full of promises and dread,
with things to say, and things to leave unsaid;
with broken webs to mend or re-create.

The smaller comforts lift, but don’t sustain:
the cat that soothes, the coffee cup that warms.
Oh, God, in both your male and female forms,
I ask for help to pull it off again.

I check the things I’ll need: keys, schedule, face.
I cannot name myself. Can I name you:
craftsperson, landsman, poet, Buddhist, Jew?
Have you some power to lend? A little grace?

This is my little prayer, my subway prayer:
Please help me travel well from here to there.

--Enid Dame