faith pieces (I)

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” His pink and dusty mouth formed the words over and over again, keeping time with his body as he rocked back and forth. He sat between the doorways of Walgreens and Dollar City, beneath blue and plywood scaffolding. Five minutes ago he might have been sitting cross-legged underneath the similarly crossed beams of metal that held up three stories of platforms for painters or tuckpointers. Indeed, his ankles were still crossed as he held his knees to his neck, which made his side-to-side rocking appear unbalanced. He could tip over at any moment, but he held his back taught, focusing only on the movement of his mouth and his foggy breath. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” He wasn’t cursing. He wasn’t shouting or wailing. He wasn’t loud, nor did his voice sound scratchy and bitter. He might have been praying, or he might not have known any other word. But isn’t that what prayer really is anyway?