I sit in my faded orange seat
And watch people watch others.

The aluminum doors open.
The conductor waits patiently.

The square windows, like portholes on a ship,
Illuminate the dark dirty tunnels
No man has touched since they were laid down with sweat and blood.

Then, on comes the light that will take away the dark in these tunnels.

He opens his mouth and out comes the sonorous voice that drifts
From ear to ear, while each head turns to the source.
The doors close and we are encased in the song of the subway dreamer.

He stands alone and lets the sweet Italian words float to the listeners.
He hoods our ears with his voice and when the words cease,
The fire that burns behind our eyes glows all the brighter.

People no longer scramble from dirty car to dirty car, for they have found the greatest
And the dirtiest of them all.

The man sings again.
His words no longer float, but shoot like arrows to the ears of whoever will listen.

I am brimming with a need to remind him of who he is:
What he could become, or what he once was.

My stop arrives.
I place a dollar in his hat that sits in his hand
And keep my mouth shut.