Subway Rider

Everyday
I ride the subway,
And everyday
I watch you sitting in the same cracked seat
Across the narrow littered aisle,
Your vacant eyes staring beyond
The folded newspaper,
Declaring that you are miles upon miles away.

I’ve never seen you get on or off
The echoing subway car,
But I know that surely you must,
For no one rides the rails all night,
Do they?
Surely you have a job,
A home,
A place where you are loved and cherished,
Greeted with outstretched arms and joyful smiles.

I quietly wonder who you are,
Pondering your likes,
Your loves,
Your past,
And your hopeful plans for the future.

Once, I ventured to give a friendly
“Hello,”
But your silent, serious stare
Made me feel as though
I had screamed a lungful of vulgar obscenities,
So I sheepishly turned back to my magazine
And never tried again.

One day
I notice that except for yesterday’s newspaper,
Your space is empty,
And I wonder where you are.

Maybe you’ve finally found a place to get off,
The place you’ve been searching for all this time.

I stare across the aisle at the discarded paper,
A physical reminder
Of distance kept,
A friendship lost.

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