After Chemo, surgery, and radiation, my hair
returning, like a silver glaze,
I'm once more on the open road,
traveling home from Boston.
From Harvard Square to South Station,
then up the twenty concrete steps to the
Amtrak area - no escalator this time.
I'm clumping up the concrete steps,
hoisting my copper-colored 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 to a golden glow.
As I move on, I feel his gaze
Our angels, where do they come from, and
how do they know when exactly to appear?