He sits outside, plate glass window between the two of us. Glad that is the case. I would not chat with him, out there reading, underlining carefully, words from the Word. Once that was me, so why does it bother me so much? I could better tolerate a woman, hijab in place, rapt in some Koran text; a turbaned Hindu caught up in his Vedas; even a witch poring through some wiccan text. What he reads contains truth, better said for me, than those other books. And so I ask myself again: Why does it bother me so very much?