Not as good.

Grace

The newborn baby in your arms
Cries quietly as the subway car rattles
Back and forth,
Purposed and unyielding.

As the door shuts closed
You see a rat: black with
Anger and perseverance
Pick up a half eaten egg roll and scamper away.

The train begins again
To shake and screech
Deep underneath centuries and centuries of
Ebbing and flowing, shaking and screeching.

You check your watch,
And stroke your daughter’s head.

She’s crying into your still-tender breasts--
You lean into her baby-soft head, and sigh.
As the train pulls up to 191st street
You close your eyes and begin to hum.

From the next car a man walks in with a guitar
And plays an old Clapton song that’s always brought you to tears.
Misty eyed and dizzy, you give him a dollar
And ask him if he takes requests.

“This is New York, Lady. Of course not.”

You pick up your phone,
Dial the numbers that you have had etched into your memory
Since you were 26,
Let it ring two and a half times
--just like you’ve done three times this week--
and snap the screen shut
like a thin beak grasping for worms.

You turn your head to the man with the guitar
Now singing Lenard Cohen
Now opening the subway door
And lean your lips down
To your baby’s glistening head.