During the first act
of the play I decide

to pray for the man
with Tourette’s who
sits behind us, his
tics like feral hiccups,
each tremor a tiny shock

rocking the scaffolding
in the black box. I
somehow know better

than to turn and look,
though at first I
suspect him part
of the cast, his

presence a director’s
trick—everyman’s
condition caught up
in his broken gasps

and strangled sighs.
But no, he is simply
a man with Tourette’s
at a play. I commit

to pray

for him, to
move this mountain,
to pray until the seizing

stops. Between
each tic I pause
until the next spasm—
then I pray again, more
fervently:

please God let it— stop