Is it Friday? No, not yet,
But half the bus is wearing blue.
Or maybe not quite half the bus,
Say, ten or twelve of thirty-two.

One of them, she looks like smiles –
Foreign thought, if for today –
Could make her yet more beautiful.
What clenched her fist? Cannot say.

Shoes, shirt, tie, and magazine –
That one tucked under his arm –
To work he goes? So it does seem
His eyes downcast; God, he knows

What ails, what hurts, what twists the knife
In wounds that human eyes ne’er seen –
Except, perhaps, the saints, for they
See Love without an in-between.

And too the Angels, if God cast
Their sight into the wounds of men
And women on this bus that goes
From stop to stop, continues, then

Delivers us to chores and tasks –
Some of us to the chapel, too,
Where, with the Blessed Sacrament
We bring to God all that they do.