where the writers are
Across from me on the Metro

In a grimace, like
she was dying
her downturned eyes
slide off her round brown
cheeks.  A tongue the exact
color of a strawberry and the
shape of a worm, escapes
her mouth and points
      I stare at her and see
my reflection beyond, skull-
white.  My cheekbones
like the backs of two
small shovel blades.     
     We meet eyes with
a not unfriendly gaze,
and a sort of mutual acknowledgement
that had that been a seizure,
I would have done my best to save her.
And that, had I not succeeded,
I would absolutely have gone to her funeral.