On the uptown A train,
a woman almost misses her stop.
I know this because she rises suddenly,
piercing the dream bubble over her head.
Her knees buckle.
She reaches for a rail by the sliding doors.
“I was thinking of sweet potatoes,”
she tells the young masked man holding
the rail framing the other side of the door.
Her eyes smile over her surgical mask.
She wears an orange belted coat that brushes tall boots.
Her long hair falls in soft, salon waves.
She can afford goods and services.
But it’s the sweet potatoes that allude her,
made by someone she loves,
passed on a platter.
When she steps out at 145th Street,
others on the train begin to dream too,
so hard,
that I consume their imaginary feasts
on my commute home.
By the time I turn my key, I am full.
I am a health and wellness director in Manhattan. I consider myself a cruise director on land and screen, executing health-based adventures.