As If From Central Casting

Chemo, surgery, radiation, my hair
glazed with silver,
I'm once more on the open road,
traveling home from Boston.

Harvard Square, South Station,
up twenty concrete steps,

no escalator this time.

I'm clumping up the steps,
hoisting my copper suitcase,
struggling with each few steps when,
right on cue, as if from Central Casting,
a Sikh man, in lavender turban, gently
wafts my luggage to the landing.

At the landing, I thank him with "Sat Nam."
At this, his eyes brighten.
As I move on, I feel his gaze.

Our angels, where do they come from, and
how do they know when exactly to appear?