Subway Token

Subway Token

      Iris Noble

That first long Monday

Back at work

After the funeral

On the rush-hour subway,

Heading home

To the still apartment,

There were no seats.

A white-haired man,

In a faded pin-stripe suit,

Who must have seen

Vernon’s death in my face,

Took hold of the pole,

Stood, and indicated

With his parchment hand.

No, no, I’m fine, I said. He smiled

Away my lie. Humor an old codger,

His eyes said. His gallant hand, leaf-

Light at my elbow, guided me,

As though from the cotillion floor.

Undone by such kindness,

I sat.

From Park Street Under

Across the bridge

Past the sailboats on the Charles

He stood as if in guard

Of my ill-hidden loss.

Something so calm about him

Made me feel absurdly protected.

As we slowed into Harvard, did he

Say this, or did I read it in his face,

The history of the weather in his face:

You needn’t fight it, you know.

For as long as it takes,

Grief’s good company

And a trusted friend.

Sudden tears as much

From relief as grief stung my eyes.

I nodded, almost smiled, did smile,

Felt Vernon nearer than he’d been,

Came up the steps into the soft April light

Feeling I might just make it through this

After all.