Sleeping Man

This Sunday on the subway
I met a homeless man,
And his pushcart, placed nearby,
Sleeping across three slick tangerine seats
In one corner of the C train to Brooklyn

I sat two places down
The doors pulled closed
The car pulled forward
And the man’s pushcart began to roll
Toward his resting place

Instinctively I reached for the handle
To steady the cart
As the car jerked onward into the darkness
As the man dozed into the morning


In silence we spoke
This sleeping man and I

His closed, tired eyes, told of life
My hand, bracing the buggy
And my eyes, open, simply listened
As the stories dripped from the wrinkles
Around his mouth and nose

Spilling on until our third stop
When, at the slip of my grip, I realized
That the cart was wedged to roll only a bit
And could stand on its own

But all the same I held tight to its blue plastic handle
Because I didn’t know what else I could do


And as the car swayed from side to side
Like the folded arms of a mother
Rocking her child's tears into rest
Or as a ship battered in some great gale
Fighting for equanimity

I wondered what was behind
Those closed, tired eyes

I wondered of what he dreamed