The Commuter’s Portrait

The 4 train smells like wet wool and brake dust.

I was leaning my head against the glass

when a man in a salt-stained coat

watched the stations and the darkness pass.

He handed me a folded square of paper,

a quilted napkin from a deli down the line.

He got off at 14th without a word,

leaving his handiwork to be mine.

It’s me—the heavy lids, the sagging mouth,

drawn in a blue ink that starts to bleed

where my thumb dampens the corner.

It’s more truth than I think I need.