Look at that gray man
in the seat on the edge of the car.
He breathes and we gasp at the heave
of his chest. How can a person so acute
be alive? The bulk of his being shaven
to point, exposing our last dangled nerve.
He is our mirrored son.
His are the hands that have failed
him in prayer, hands that once fed
our hungers, that caught a fly
ball backwards, and made the grandstands
cheer. We cheered. We jeer. When the train
jerks and stops between stations, he looks
through our windows and sees us.
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