The F train judders to a halt, then resumes its crawl towards Manhattan. Across from me sits a man in a black wool coat. I have a book. He has lint, which he has been culling since I got on at 7th Avenue and 9th Street.

On the other side of the carriage is a gaggle of noisy schoolchildren, one of whom is wearing an injured puffer jacket. Every time someone punches him, the jacket spews.

Down takes to the air like cottonwood seeds as the delinter attends to his hem. A plume drifts past his knees; he freezes mid-pluck.

Lara Frankena is a Midwesterner by birth and a Londoner by chance. Her poems have appeared in publications such as American Writers Review, PEN International Magazine and Midwestern Gothic.

Photo by Daniel Adesina

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