Yankee Woman

This morning as I'm making my commute out of the city to Rye, NY, a small, old woman decked out entirely in NY Yankees gear hopped onto the 6 train at Union Square. She inspired me to write this poem...

Yankee woman on the subway

curly hair,

sits alone

surname, though not her own, on her back

stares ahead through dirty window

dirty tunnel walls

aged like

veiny hands

clasped.

Red shoes match red cap

as bag slung,

slightly shifting

from a bony shoulder

precarious, like

sweaty hands

gripping the edge of

the second tier.

foul ball an inch out of

reach.

dirty fingernails, glint dully.

Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

I think I'm going to try to start posting recordings of my poetry to this blog...as they are usually intended to be spoken aloud rather than just read. It'd be nice to get them out there.