Her hair: cropped short as a punk's, same
gray as these connected cars; her pullover's blue
snug, the few holes along her sleeves
flesh-colored sores; she's cursing the crooks
at City Hall--then go back to where you are from
he says, off in a huff at Powell; on her feet now
she spots me facing the light-streaked black,
crosses the aisle, sits down; the puffy skin
beneath her eyes: pinkish--I hate this place, she says
holding an envelope in my face--could you
help me with this address they cut
me off those boys what they did that lady
outside my room on the stairs; and the joints
of her fingers: bulbs--I was you know
a typist in New York...O, she says, what'll I
do do you know this address what should I
tell them I swear sometimes
if maybe I just-- her voice dissolving,
mingling with the long sharp whistle
and the sound of the rails as the convoy
begins to break; and then the sliding doors
and gets off the train
-- by Francisco Aragon