Subway Blessing
I study the gaunt face of the woman
who sits opposite me on the subway;
it’s hard to tell her age—anywhere
between fifty and seventy I guess;
her dark skin is virtually unlined,
but there is something about her posture,
the slight slope of her back,
the weathered hands picking lint
from her plain black t-shirt
that tells me she’s probably older.
She has a rucksack by her feet,
a newspaper and a plastic water bottle
sticking out the top;
I wonder if she’s homeless,
if she rides the subway to keep warm.
Her coat has seen better years, as have
her dingy, once-white sneakers.
I have in mind to hand her a twenty,
but before I can leave my seat,
she stands and crosses over to mine.
I startle as she takes both my hands
in hers, thinking she might rob me.
But she just closes cocoa-brown eyes,
and in a gentle sing-song voice says,
“May the universe grant you peace;
may you find beauty and tranquility.”
Faintly, in the background, I’m aware
of the conductor announcing the stop,
aware of the train pulling into the station.
The woman doesn’t utter another word,
but simply stands, exits, fades into the crowd.
I close my gaping mouth and look at my palms,
goosebumps trailing up both arms. One thought
presses like a sacred kiss upon my forehead:
angels are never homeless.
Maybe I’ll Stay
Maybe I’ll stay for the night;
maybe I’ll climb into bed
I guess I’ll turn off the light
quiet the voice in my head
Bruises blend with the dark,
the sun is still hours away;
he knows he’s left his mark,
and I’ll have to say it’s okay
I tell myself I have a plan;
it’s just a little white lie;
where would I go if I ran
I could not escape if I tried
If Saints Returned
Mouth agape, I stand at the entrance
of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.
Flanking the entrance steps stand
two colossal marble statues:
St. Peter and St. Paul.
And I wonder—should the two of them
descend from their lofty marble heights,
should their sandaled feet and robes
touch the cobblestones they once knew,
would they see the gray-haired woman,
her crooked legs curled beneath her,
metal cup in hand? Would they drop
a silver coin? Would they preach
from their scrolls, share salvation
with the passerby’s, some with faces
stubbled with shadows of despair?
Would St. Paul use his sword to defend
the defenseless? Would St. Peter use
his keys to unlock the Pearly Gates?
To read more poems by the same author click here
About the Author
Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College, and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/
