This morning, I decided to stay in the subway car

With the old man sleeping under his stinking coat,

His feet propped up on a tattered suitcase,

The slits of his eyes pulled shut.

And I thought of him, an infant,

Having come through the door of the world

Like anyone else:

Like a hero, like a priest, like a young man

Riding the rails across a blooming country

With nothing but a handkerchief sack,

Leaning against a barrel of corn,

Smelling the dirt and rain of the nation.