Unexpected pleasure:
the ladies room at Port Authority.
Four mirrors in a row, each with a little ledge,
clean enough, and attended, and at each
one of us is going about the business
of organizing our face.
Off of one vehicle, on to the next, in between
for a moment I see how beautiful I am really,
and still, and how fortunate I am, what worlds upon
worlds of privilege to have a face this soft at forty.
The frown crumples on ten minutes later
after I've said no to someone needing something
to eat, the cash in my bag I counted out for the bus,
after paying my rent with xmas presents, yet
yes I could have given a tip to this person, the worried,
wrinkled, short and still gentle man in a red vest
who pointed me to that restroom.

Ten hours later, he's still at his post, and when I give him the dollar, I feel the airs taking on but I'm still glad I gave it. And I wish the women I combed out my curls alongside this morning got the part, got the job, got what they needed, and are safe, now, in this city, or the one we were traveling on to.