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.