there's a man asleep on the metro,
avoiding the cold rain above,
the crowded street corners,
the uneven cobblestones.
he's tucked himself beneath a blue bench
on the south-bound seven line.
as the car brakes and accelerates
at each stop, i can see his body rock.
i can only imagine that he must,
for a moment,
just before the doors open and close,
remember a time
when arms rocked him instead of steel
when those who crowded around to stare
wrote poetry about his potential, not his predicament.