Left Hand

The train screams under 42nd Street

and I'm white-knuckling the metal pole

just to keep from pitching into a tourist.

The fluorescent light hits the bone

in a way that makes my skin look thin

and gray, like wet newsprint.

I don't wear the gold anymore

but the ghost of it stays,

a pale, un-sunned circle of proof

that my hand is turning into his—

thick at the joints,

heavy with a history I didn't ask for.