I Pray You Don't Get Tetanus
I follow her shoeless feet,
blackened and bandaged,
across two train lines.
She's the one I saw in the Duane Reade
explaining to her companions from Korea
why her homeland (Russia)
made the expenses of New York
seem paltry.
Somehow between tipsy Port Authority
and a packed L train
we remain bound to each other.
She stands, leopard stilettos in hand
her skin so fair against
the speckled blackness of the floor
I touch her hand with the intention of
offering her my seat,
but she stares on,
her eyes too tired to commit to
the flicker of shame that burned
in their dilated pupils as briefly
as the popping of our ears
as we went under the river.
