Friday evening on the 51

"Excuse me, which stop is this?" the man with the white brimmed hat asks me across the bus aisle.

"San Pablo." I reply.

"Oh ok," as he searches for the button to request the stop. "Do you believe in God?"

"Excuse me?" I ask, not sure if I heard him clearly, a bit hesitant hoping he's not too evangelical, "um...yes?"

"Then this is for you," as he reaches into his paper lunch bag and pulls out a freshly cut rose, "God loves you."

"Thank you." The petals of the center rose just opening, surrounded by four closed buds.

I inhaled it's alluringly sweet scent past the boarded up buildings with brown grasses growing from the roof gutter and through the mists of diesel exhaust.