The subway rider at 8:30 in the morning in the Bronx
Is an angle-worm
In a fisherman’s can.
He is a bee
In a swarm held captive under a hat,
A molecule of air
In the process of being liquefied.
He stands like a hungry man
At the end of a crowded bread-line
Before a winter soup-kitchen.
His countenance is as solemn
As the face of a clock on New Year’s Eve.
He does not love his neighbor as himself.
His gaze is dull and stolid.
He yearns
For Times Square.
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