In the Subway

He lay there. In the subway door.

A threshold.  A flesh hold.

Doors opening. Closing.

The viewing. The open casket.

We all want that, don’t we?

Want people to say, “Doesn’t she look good?”

“He looks like he’s asleep.”

Our own deaths denied.

He didn’t look asleep. He looked dead.

Looked like he wanted to be.

Why? Why was he there?

Where were his family, his friends?”

How did it get this bad?

What is his story?

“…home of the free and the brave.”

Doors opening. Closing.

Heads turn away.

Back into business.

Away from facing fear.

Away from hurt and waste.

Away from smelling shame.

Doors opening. Closing.

Stepping over. Around.

Huddling near our poles.

Why doesn’t someone help? Why don’t I?

What keeps our hands from reaching?

From touching?

Where is the cool water?

Has hope left the train?

“Next stop, Broadway.”

A crowd gets off.

Doors closing.

This stop: Narrow Way.

Only Jesus leaves his seat.

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