Subway Ride Home, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Subway Ride Home

Subway Ride Home

She stood silent while is handed the bag
Nodding with thanks she turns, heads for the street
Her feet are slow, almost needing to drag
Outside it is cold, just starting to sleet

Walk to the subway a mere thousand feet
But for her it is that in hilly miles
Her heavy head down, there’s no one to greet
There are thoughts if there’ll be any more smiles

Steps she climbs to the platform are painful
The rail she holds tight, the bag much tighter
Now feels like she’s carrying an anvil
Knowing that the bag will not get lighter

The train has the force of a nor’easter
She clutches the bag like it were a child
Hoping the door will be in front of her
Inside a safe feeling but not beguiled

Gently places the bag upon the seat
The train will now carry it to its home
Closing her heavy eyes, again they meet
With tears like tropic rain, she says “Shalom”

Nothing special about the bag itself
What is inside was most of her life
Container once home to be on a shelf
For sixty two years she was his wife