I watch them bow again,

on their knees,

facing Mecca.

Bony cheeks. Ribs.

Their bare feet,

calloused.

I face Mecca, too,

but the glare of the sun,

or the heat,

or the water,

or the dirty pier

does not let me see

in that direction.

And so I turn

and watch them pray,

like their fathers,

mumbling to themselves

as if centuries hadn’t passed

while in my mind the ship’s horn

screams at noon.