Sorrow
By Gene Aronowitz
Rats crawl
over political prisoners,
swarm in sewers, spread
plague, bite
little babies but this rat is alone,
sick, possibly poisoned.
He’s down
in the subway track bed,
emaciated, collapses
repeatedly, on the pink
swath where his flat
blackish hair
should be.
The train I want
arrives
but I let it leave
without me, see a
blur, think its
the fur of the rat
but, no - it’s only
a piece of paper, propelled by the draft of the
departed
train.
