Commuter Greenhouse

At 5:12 the subway exhales under glass, palms bead with station light, each leaf a small ear. Boot soles hiss on tiles still wet from mopping, and the turnstile clicks like knitting needles.

A woman in paint-stained coveralls waters ferns from a dented can the color of old rain. Steam climbs from a paper cup in her left hand, making a private weather around her face.

Train wind combs the fronds, green flags trembling; advertisements flutter, bright fish in a current. We stand in our coats, brief winter planets, orbiting the scent of soil and iron.

When my carriage arrives, doors open like shears. I carry one fern-shadow on my sleeve. Aboveground, morning is a pale unripe pear, and the city begins to photosynthesize.