Before the holes appeared

Scenes From A Day

The woman on the bus crosses herself as we pass
the Catholic church, kissing her saintly fingertips
as if she’d dipped them in consecrated honey.

The joyless man in the greasy ballcap, his hands
in his pockets feeling around for whatever bliss
might have been there before the holes appeared.

The woman at the blood pressure machine
laughing when I ask if you’re supposed to put
your arm or your head into the narrow tester.



The grandfather with his two grandsons sitting
down to a served breakfast, few things more
promising than freshly plated eggs and bacon.

The girl with the needle she wants to put into
my arm, to draw what the vialed morning gives
us in this moment that bleeds quickly away.

The man in the jeweler’s shop window, leaning
out into the unglassed world, no one inside
but him and all that precious ticking time.

The woman with the walker, smiling as I hold
the door open, happy to do so for the minutes
it takes her to arrive at our unscheduled stop.

Joseph Gallo
July 9, 2014