Photography by my daughter, Sofia
A shaggy white-haired man, stooped
with age & black leather jacket enters the train
His red cane, flint-scratched & wind-bitten, side steps
the crowd while balancing his uneven gait as one hand
firmly grips a clear plastic bag fluffy of papers-
It looks like trash or maybe treasures, depending on one's
lens. One young man gives up his seat, while another man
leaps out of the way. Gallantry is alive, like a lilac, waiting
to slip out. The old man takes a seat & closes his eyes
His unshaven face, white-inked like well stamped book
slumps in rest, bent to train's rambling duet with wind-
On his lap, he carefully cradles his clear plastic bag like his
guts spilling out for all
to count
There's an empty seat beside him
No one takes it, no one comes near. Time
crumples between my fingers & palm-
A woman in stylish winter coat boards the train
She moves towards the empty seat, but one look at the old man
& she backs off. She doesn't hide her disdain, swift
as bullet. The old man's station arrives & he gets out
limping with his cane, while holding on to his plastic bag
Our collective breath is shallow, empty of recoil
& the cracks in our mask move with us
As we speed past blurring tunnels
into a small world
Posted for the D'verse Poets Pub - Pick a line - and get that joust started -
The lines in Italics by Brian Miller's poem, If I Stay
The title is inspired by Claudia Schonfeld, Sketching on Portabello road//the clock//is body-less
