To be as arrogant as Whitman,
that’s what I wish some evenings
as I am jostled on the subway
from work, so that I could stand
and sing myself right in the middle
of the aisle, between the woman
and her double-wide baby carriage
and the younger kids yelling slurs
back and forth. All these atoms,
I’d say, belong to me. So get out of my way.
I wouldn’t remind them, like Whitman,
That I’m no more owner than them.
They share too much already. The heat
from their bodies rises and churns
so that I can smell the unclean,
the sick, those who don’t ever make it home.

12/15/2009

Posted on 12/15/2009
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