Commuter's Alms

The 4-train was a humid, silver lung

breathing us in and out at every stop.

I felt invisible, a shadow hung

from a plastic strap, waiting for the drop.

A woman with a coat of thrift-store wool

reached out and pressed a bar into my palm.

It was half-eaten, a jagged, honeyed pull

of oats and raisins—a strange, quiet psalm.

She was gone before the doors could hiss and shut.

I looked at the wrapper, crinkled and thin,

and the clear marks of teeth where she’d taken a cut.

It’s a terrible thing, to be suddenly seen.