Poem: Subway Ballad

Off the bus, Times Square, downpour –
heat wave – no taxi – rush hour –
suitcase – backpack –
massive briefcase –

bookbag, and the purse Billy calls
my bowling-bag carrier.
Bouncing the double-decker wheelie down
the first long flight – a young man

Asked if I needed help, and easily
lifted and carried both vehicles.
Then a staircase up,
and a young man said,

“May I?” and at the top I said,
“You are my angel,”
and he looked – into my eyes
and smiled.

Another flight, another young man,
and the last stairs, a young woman.
It is what I do – be done by
by kindness.

at rush hour – huge luggage
fore and aft – I apologized a lot –
we’re all so sick of old white women
bragging about their helplessness.

Off at Bleeker – up elevator –
rain and urine – on its floor.
home of privilege: faculty fortress.
At the desk, Concierge.

Up 17 floors – long view
of Lower Manhattan. My song: I want, I want
to thank you. Ask me
for anything. I hope I recognize you, fellow citizen.

                            Sharon Olds



(Make the 6 look like the subway number in a circle)