Descending the Subway Stairs

Softly the shoes pace, the concrete now a carpet.
Spring and the billowing flesh, like marigolds, blooms in the garden.

I descend the combed concrete to where a slender violinist and her beau
lean against the tiles, the soundtrack a revolving door.

and I stand staggered by the scene at that checkpoint
where men and women pass in padding percussion

then take the stairs to the sun past the blind beggar I ignore except to think:

“Lucky him, his vision, “to be even more invisible than me.”

© Dan Goorevitch, 2001, 2007