Portraits on the F Train

179 Street
Pristine and withered,
she sits apart, not touching
the spread of mundane.

169 Stree
His neck is stiff as
he stares ahead at nothing,
attempting blindness.

Parsons Boulevard
She murmurs a song
like she's performing for all,
or maybe no one.

Sutphin Boulevard
Mud clumps on her knees,
like she had knelt or groveled
before God or man.

When my stop arrives
I push through crowds to get off,
an easy goodbye.

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