Brisk march down the subway platform
One pulled-back panel of green tile revealing century-old rusty bits,
And one old wooden shim, woodgrain visible under underground grime
Of a sudden, in that glimpse, I’m thrown into its
Tiny beginnings,
Quiet whispers of time,
Years of baked pine-needle-and-soil smell
slowly passing like one perfect summer afternoon;
The boots
The sawmill scream
The sawdust air
The truck
The worker
The saw
The mallet
The muffled roar of time
The glance of a woman who thinks she knows where she’s going.
