Turnstile

I carry the prints of a hundred thousand
strangers in my hands, their palms
on the turnstile this morning like mine
touching the kiosk buttons, fingering
coins to pay for the Times. At Union Square Station,
the stale breath of others
inhabits the boxcar air. The scent of lilacs
shuttles with us from the garden to work
with our spring colds, our smokers' coughs,
the Daily News the others left behind
on their seats, vacant, invisible debris,
tubercular, airborne like grief, theirs
not like mine, not like anyone else's.

Copyright © 2007 Elaine Sexton All rights reserved
from Causeway
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission