At lunch
she studies on the stairs
the ones hidden away
behind some double doors
in the back of the cafeteria
I got in there
to buy my soda
(the only machine that
sells cans is in there)
and I see her
she’s not pretty,
pudgy face,
hood on her head,
eyes wild
as I put my dollar in
and hit the button for
a diet coke
I see her there
everyday
my back is turned
but I feel her stare,
I feel the apprehension at me
entering her sanctum in the air
I contemplate a greeting,
but realize that’s too much.
so I whistle
whistle plain and clear
most would think it normal,
a small task to do while I wait for my drink,
but if one listened closely
and just happened to know the tune
they’d know what I whistled
to that friendless,
Muslim girl
was that
one day
she too
would be
loved