Press my fingertips
against the smeared, greasy glass,
watching the girl standing alone
in the monochrome metro.
There is something urgent about her,
something so deeply sad in those big eyes,
something trapped inside an everyday nightmare
where the monster is swallowing her whole
and her hands are tied.

She needs to get on this train.
She needs it more than anything,
but I'm the only one
with my nose to the window.
The rest exist
behind vacant stares.
Not their fault,
but I have to get her.

I rap my knuckles against scratched epitaphs
and one-line tales of love and humanity
and she looks up,
not caring who,
simply knowing that she needs to escape
into this cramped, smelly car
over-filled with the unconscious.

I worm my way to the doors,
push at them with both hands,
but they were not made
to be moved by the will of one.

We stand,
slender fingers to short ones through the transparent barrier,
and I want to tell her
that I won't let it leave without her,
but it's not a promise I can make alone:
The mindless dead
must first be resurrected
from the womb like children,
blind to the condemning sight.
Then the doors will be opened.