It’s Sunday morning on 112 Avenue

And we’re on our way to Church

We pass a teenage girl

Listening to her iPod and dancing in a bus shelter

It’s a silent pantomime of song, which only she hears

With her eyes closed and hands moving

I watch and inhale the beat.

God is looking on

Me, in my starched collar

She, in her mini skirt, dancing

My Sunday morning singer

God’s child.