I.
While crossing the street outside
a pawn shop and
three loud salons a mother
heaves as her young son clings
round her neck like
a wet sack of corn.
Her teenage daughter clasps
her sister’s small digits while
she grips her brother’s
big wheel by the axle and
clenches it to her throat as she
clenches her teeth: hard white stars
like the bars of the crosswalk.
II.
The Indian couple’s beet shirts
bleed into each other
with arms around, two ventricles
molded together like the bus engine,
four eyes on his newspaper briefcase
a pair of earplug headphones
split between like a wishbone
to ears and brains
pumped with warm blood.
III.
Just a blue sweater with a CPD patch,
an old peaked cap crowned with a badge
visored in slick black, and a raw leather belt
holstering a revolver, the worn wood of the handle
matching the age of his splintered knightstick,
rigid tools that forged a city.
He leans, arms behind him, against a subway column
the people flowing by
and says nothing, says everything
through posture straight as order,
through the soft wrinkles outlining a chin bone
chiseled from concrete by a crowbar.
IV.
A sliver of back shows
above his spiked belt
his arms curled up
in stretch jacket sleeves
to cave his sleeping head
legs curled fetally
sneakers planted
in the next train seat,
attachés and purses
cramped around,
apparently no objection.
V.
Thick cigars of hair hang from beneath
his floppy black hat, and they spread
along his brakelight T-shirt, hanging
far below the sliding waist of his jeans
behind the fur of his face, his smooth skin
slightly lighter than his girlfriend’s
her deep chocolate cheeks stooped between
a white nylon skull cap, a white cotton T-shirt
where the baby is pressed, spotted pink pants,
shirt a miniature version of her mothers,
her skin shading a complement to each parent
little groucho mustaches matting her scalp
and when she’s handed from ma to pa
and ma leans with a forearm on the stroller
her feet savors the weight they save
while they wait for the midnight train.
VI.
The neon in his running shoes
matches the color of the empty chip bag
he snatches from the sidewalk,
crushes in a fist already filled:
a paper cup, a dirty newspaper, a sock.
His blonde spikes swivel, no cars,
so he jogs across
tosses the pile in the can,
drags the can to the corner
and jogs back the way he came,
sunglasses shrouding identity.
VII.
A large potato man
in jeans and a FUBU jersey
stands up, holding a laminated placard
with his pictures and details
and addresses the silence
of the afternoon train
in rehearsed staccato:
“May I please have your attention.
My name is ----------------
and I am an ex-convict.
I cannot find a job, and I would appreciate
if any of you have business cards
or need to hire someone for work.
I know how this sounds
but the truth is
I have a family.
I am asking if anyone can spare
anything
so that I may purchase
a seven-day CTA pass
that I can use to find work.
I cannot find work
without a CTA pass.
Anything,
please,
would be appreciated.”
And when sick of knocking on apathy’s door
he slumps into the seat in front of me,
and shakes his head. “Man oh man.” He exhales,
a breath that hisses through the train, an exhale
he’s perfected, maybe intentionally, or maybe just
in all the nights he spent on the top bunk.
He grabs his things. He shuffles to another car.
I look at the faces lining our home.
No one makes eye contact.
While crossing the street outside
a pawn shop and
three loud salons a mother
heaves as her young son clings
round her neck like
a wet sack of corn.
Her teenage daughter clasps
her sister’s small digits while
she grips her brother’s
big wheel by the axle and
clenches it to her throat as she
clenches her teeth: hard white stars
like the bars of the crosswalk.
II.
The Indian couple’s beet shirts
bleed into each other
with arms around, two ventricles
molded together like the bus engine,
four eyes on his newspaper briefcase
a pair of earplug headphones
split between like a wishbone
to ears and brains
pumped with warm blood.
III.
Just a blue sweater with a CPD patch,
an old peaked cap crowned with a badge
visored in slick black, and a raw leather belt
holstering a revolver, the worn wood of the handle
matching the age of his splintered knightstick,
rigid tools that forged a city.
He leans, arms behind him, against a subway column
the people flowing by
and says nothing, says everything
through posture straight as order,
through the soft wrinkles outlining a chin bone
chiseled from concrete by a crowbar.
IV.
A sliver of back shows
above his spiked belt
his arms curled up
in stretch jacket sleeves
to cave his sleeping head
legs curled fetally
sneakers planted
in the next train seat,
attachés and purses
cramped around,
apparently no objection.
V.
Thick cigars of hair hang from beneath
his floppy black hat, and they spread
along his brakelight T-shirt, hanging
far below the sliding waist of his jeans
behind the fur of his face, his smooth skin
slightly lighter than his girlfriend’s
her deep chocolate cheeks stooped between
a white nylon skull cap, a white cotton T-shirt
where the baby is pressed, spotted pink pants,
shirt a miniature version of her mothers,
her skin shading a complement to each parent
little groucho mustaches matting her scalp
and when she’s handed from ma to pa
and ma leans with a forearm on the stroller
her feet savors the weight they save
while they wait for the midnight train.
VI.
The neon in his running shoes
matches the color of the empty chip bag
he snatches from the sidewalk,
crushes in a fist already filled:
a paper cup, a dirty newspaper, a sock.
His blonde spikes swivel, no cars,
so he jogs across
tosses the pile in the can,
drags the can to the corner
and jogs back the way he came,
sunglasses shrouding identity.
VII.
A large potato man
in jeans and a FUBU jersey
stands up, holding a laminated placard
with his pictures and details
and addresses the silence
of the afternoon train
in rehearsed staccato:
“May I please have your attention.
My name is ----------------
and I am an ex-convict.
I cannot find a job, and I would appreciate
if any of you have business cards
or need to hire someone for work.
I know how this sounds
but the truth is
I have a family.
I am asking if anyone can spare
anything
so that I may purchase
a seven-day CTA pass
that I can use to find work.
I cannot find work
without a CTA pass.
Anything,
please,
would be appreciated.”
And when sick of knocking on apathy’s door
he slumps into the seat in front of me,
and shakes his head. “Man oh man.” He exhales,
a breath that hisses through the train, an exhale
he’s perfected, maybe intentionally, or maybe just
in all the nights he spent on the top bunk.
He grabs his things. He shuffles to another car.
I look at the faces lining our home.
No one makes eye contact.
All work on this website © 2004-2016 Derek Lazarski. All rights reserved.