Bum On The Subway

I want to write something profound
about the smelly bum sleeping on the subway.

I'm telling you,
this motherfucker stank!
The stench had it's own zip code.
It held us hostage like a terrorist on a plane.

All kinds of stuff would be in this poem:

How I couldn't help but imagine
entire generations of vermin
living in his rancid clothing.

How I made a game out of watching
how long it took each new passenger
to notice the stink, wrinkle up their nose,
swear, and move away.

The brief flashes of camaraderie;
the acknowledgment of a common enemy
that transcended the usual subway rules of aversion.

I'd like to describe how he briefly opened
his crusted bloodshot eyes
and took in his surroundings
in a lethargic stupor
like a bear awakening from hibernation.

I'd like to describe,
without weepy sentiment or new-agey do-goodery,
how I wanted to see the worthy human soul
inside the shaggy matted rag-heap,
imagining him as a child,
fresh-faced and dressed in clean clothes,
with a mother who loved him,
and how difficult it was
to put myself in his shoes;
to conceive of any circumstance so dire
it would lead me to that fallen state.

I want to write something profound about all of this.
Something that sums up the tragedy of being alive
and makes me seem deep,
like "Oh, the humanity..."

But I got off the subway
with a head full of nothing.

And I don't know if the profundity has escaped me
or if I really just have nothing to say...

David Aronson
October 2006