The one who sits in the corner
seat, slumped over himself
several times over, the corners
of him earmarked then unfolded
in the hopes that no one will find
this page of himself remarkable.
Barely legible, his text is written
in soft script on the fabrics we wear
daily. His color is grunge, no matter
the season, grunge no matter
the gender or race, grunge no matter
the age. When he shifts in the seat
meant for two, he uncovers the sign
that shouts out like neon: Please
give this seat to the elderly, those
of us whom need it most, the infirm,
the creviced, the lame. This seat is their
right. This stick figure cartoon, our law.
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