The woman knocks on my door every Saturday morning,
hoping to revive my faith in a God I no longer believe in.
She is not Muslim, Christian, or Buddhist. She is Catholic,
she says, one of the few left surviving in the world.
Every Saturday morning, I disappear down the street,
and sit and people watch at the coffee shop on Mood Street,
trying to find a way to network.
Most people I know are doormats, losers, sinners, thieves,
living in a world that is not right for them.
I know, twenty years from now, she, as a forty-three year
will still be knocking on my door, her face pressed against
the doorknob, desperately trying to dredge up a reason
for coming here, for her existence, for something that is
bigger than herself. I refuse to befriend her.