The Artist and the Average Commuter

On long subway rides,
I used to draw the commuter across from me
The man with his hands burrowed
deep in his denim pockets
I’d ask myself — what can I take from him?
Hair: already in quick pencil strokes, like stealing candy from
a baby
Eyes: tired, but metallic like the coins I’d imagine in his
Hands: tucked away.
They must be warm in there, I thought.

These days I see hands in pockets,
Hands where I can’t see them.
Hands holding metal.
I ask myself — what can he take from me?
And what would I give
To keep the blood rushing through my body,
and not from it?

COURTESY OF THE YU POETRY CLUB