Subways
Good Poems About Life
There is a dying ficus
erupting from a black garage bag
on the subway.
It belongs to the man who sits beside me
and rests between his legs.
The bones of his knees are smaller than mine
and I feel colossal wedged in the bucket seats
with the dusty ficus leaves overflowing on my lap.
The platforms swirl past the windows
and people shuffle in and out of the car.
Each one hauling a bit of their lives on their back.
The woman with the tiny sleeping dog,
the old man and his gnarled cane who
vehemently declines a seat when it’s offered,
the college student with an article
clutched in his hands, stained
high lighter yellow.
And me with my journal scribbling scratch,
my mud caked boots I wear well into spring.
They are good for kicking if need be.
And with every new stranger’s face
I wonder,
I wonder why.
It’s not easy to bring cumbersome baggage
onto the subway at rush hour.
And I wonder
why people bother to lug around dead plants at all.
more by NOELLE CURRIE
Photograph by Vadim Gromov
