An Old Man Died Against Me

An old man died against me.

He didn’t.

But as the bus
rattled
along,

he slept
against my arm.

I’d moved up
to make room,
his eyes glazed,
struggling to balance,

and minutes later
he was out.

Is he dead?

I’d be fine.

I wouldn’t scream...

He’s not dead!

But my arm
felt suddenly
cold.

I’d be fine,
check his pulse,
wrist,
neck—

‘I’m sorry, guys,
take him away.’

It wouldn’t
be such a bad
death,
against the snug fat
of my arm.

I could even
write a po’
about it...

‘a man died against me.’

Then he woke up
and
in a few minutes
was off,

somewhere
in town,

to go sleep
by a radiator.

Ω

Editor’s Corner

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