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.

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