Maybe

Skinny dark skinned man

hauled two heavy suit cases

onto the city bus, year end dusk.

He asked the driver for his stop,

but language failed.  She could

not understand a word he said.

Alien sounds tangled in the air.

Whatever place he fought to name,

she could not take him there.

He flapped hands, raised voice.

Driver ordered him to sit.  He sat.

I watched helpless as he made

the sign of the cross three times.

Desperation evaporated. He looked

up and recognized a land mark,

smiled, rang bell for next stop,

left bus in peace, relief.  Maybe

miracles happen every day.