Above the subway grate, she flails briefly at a bee
that's mistaken her florid hat for substance.

The bee escapes, but her left earring, heirloom,
mother of pearl, drops through the grate.

She stands looking down into that small chasm
where barely considered has now crossed into gone forever...

...below the grate of lost things, on the single billboard
platform of a downtown train where he's waited seated,

he now waits standing and sees what could be an angel
flash into his tiny sky. In a bit of sunlight, some mote,

it falls as if rushing to alight on the steely ceiling
of the oncoming train to make of it a worthy thing

where resignation is permitted to cross into
small miracles, as he prepares to board.

Don Pomerantz ' poems have appeared in Failbetter, Eclectica, Stylus Poetry Journal, and elsewhere.  He came to New York City from Western Massachusetts in the early 90s, more or less trading nature for possibility.  He spends his days as a special education teacher on the Lower East Side making his everyday life a bit of an adventure within an adventure.  He is happily attached to Barbara Feinman, semi-famous East Village milliner.

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Keywords : subway, love

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