I
People boarding the subway car react
one of two ways: most ignore him, sitting
or standing in his vicinity
not with indifference, but without
curiosity. Warily, others exit
the car. His caravan of supermarket
cart and deluxe baby stroller is secured
to a pole by a series of expert knots
against the movement of the train,
while behind it he sleeps, ensconced
across three seats, enormous, barbarically
bearded, wrapped in coats, snoring with the gusto
that precedes waking. The intimacy
is inescapable, yet we escape it.
II
His possessions are a puzzle cube
of parts: broken boxes bleeding Easter
grass and newsprint, stray springs, half a piece of powder
blue luggage, marred hinges hung with splintered Christmas
balls, bicycle handles wired to the rack
of a much-used broiler pan, detached antennas
and rubber tubing, pinwheels, a child’s missile toy,
chopsticks and plastic knives, toothbrushes, shocks
of immortelles culled from some luncheon bouquet,
and, atop it all, a jaunty array of fast food cups
with red, white, and blue straws, shadow liquid
braking with the train. On the cart’s rear bumper,
affixed with electrician’s tape—dog-eared escutcheon
of the soul—a hardware store sign reads: NOT FOR SALE.