I’m bundled up against the morning chill,
gloved hands fumbling to put on my Covid mask as I near
the farmers’ market.
In the middle of the street
a woman with strands of gray hair sliding across her ruddy face gazes at me.
What does she want? Money?
“You dropped your bag,” she says, one more angel jolting me into remembrance
that goodness hasn’t died,
gratitude and chagrin wrestling in the chambers of my heart.
Poem by Ralph Dranow
Image by Adam Strong
Ralph Dranow is a Editor, Ghostwriter, Writing Coach, and Poet. He is the author of the poetry collections ‘A New Life’ and ‘At Work on the Garments of Refuge’. More info at www.ralphdranow.net
Backwards Trajectory 