Don’t give a bouquet to the woman.
Repairing the subway escalator, her fingertips clear to the bone with machine oil.
The motion of the precision joints
ascends in the brains of the commuters.

In her damp hands
the escalator tugged once
and like a serpent      began to rise.
She stood up –
and looked up.

Far beyond the flashing shoes of
the clattering gate
a god was idly pissing.