My God Rides the Metro

Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?
Henry David Thoreau

My God rides the Metro.
He watches tunnels blur by
like ages prodded en windowed route,
sudden stops of thought.

He smiles at soft-fingered children
kneeling on orange benches,
eyes and noses conceiving steam
on this miraculous glass.

My God rides the Metro.
He holds his breath as it climbs,
skips in its tracks into sunlight,
plods over passing waters,
those unknowing rowers below.

God smells hard work and damp papers,

notices holes in briefcases and bags,
watches for auras most of us miss
as we wish for the stop at our station.

My God rides the Metro,
but no one ever looks up.
He sighs alongside travelers,
crowds with perspiring eyes.
God sees himself in passengers,

hopes we might seat ourselves near him, 

or nod in his general direction,
assure him he’s still alive.

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