Subway

You should do something.
You’re sitting there,
watching squalid subway walls slink past under spluttering lights,
and you’re staring out the window ’cause
it’s easier to think poetic thoughts about
the darkness outside the train
than it is to look that woman in the eye.
Just the one eye.
The other is black and blue, and purple — red too.
You’re shivering ’cause it’s winter, and she’s shivering ’cause she’s scared.
Your hand’s clamped on the icy pole for balance,
and his hand’s clamped on her thin neck for silence.
He’s whispering domestically violent nothings in her ear,
but he might as well be shouting them,
’cause you and the rest of the train see enough to hear.
And you want to do something. You do. But,
your hands are miniature compared to his.
And this isn’t really your concern.
And maybe someone else will help?
And maybe she wants to be with him?
And, maybe, if you make enough excuses,
you’ll forget the pain pooling in that eye
as you tuck your chin into your scarf
and step off the train.

And the ‘you’ in this is me.
And maybe the you you is better than me,
or maybe you were sitting next to me
writing poems, and not righting wrongs.