Shelter

by Gary Beck

I, a singer
in this unlove world,
fear in strange days,
running with the herd
in subway haste,
where I dimly hope
the hip that presses mine
belongs to a woman.
That face of scowls
another impatient traveler
knocking down
old women, cripples, children,
any face that interferes
with speedy arrival,
my only escape
immersion in morning paper,
lurid as a running nose.

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Filed under Issue 2, Poetry

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