Bus 57

Can you imagine, she says

with nasal n's patently from a remote corner of Eastern Anatolia,

she eats pork, drinks wine, dances with boys

and then she comes to the mosque to pray with us.

I can see her reflection in the window of the bus

or her beautiful face when I fake looking 

at something in the back rows:

She wears a colorful head-scarf, a fashionable hijab

most likely made out of silk from Bursa

and her cell phone cradled 

between her scarf and temple,

she has her hands free, holding with one

a bottle of purple Smart-Water

and gesticulating with the other

as if her friend - I assume a friend- were standing right there

Can you imagine, she says again 

in a higher pitch voice this time

the old man who sits in front of me 

has a pony tail longer than a donkey's.

I turn around

I am not that old, I say smilingly, 

trying to imitate - maybe with a touch of malice – her provincial n's

and my pony tail is not that long.

For a long second or two, we look at each other

in complete silence,

then she exclaims again:

Can you imagine,

she yells at her cell phone.

the old man understands Turkish,

in perfect teenager American

but with an accent similar to mine.