1 train Sunday morning and there's an old woman
sitting across from me, swimming in her
sundress like a stick in a circus tent. I'm
watching the graffiti go by with its rooftops and
shining brick faces and this woman between them
eating popcorn out of her lap. She lifts the bag
up like a baby elephant with its tail to the ceiling and
pours his golden teeth down her throat, and for one
buttery moment she is all tongues and wax paper.
Her hand comes back down, her mouth is exploding
with popcorn and, as her eyes fix on mine, a single
kernel rolls out of her mouth, and down her open dress.
Eric Raanan Fischman
