Flashback to the Cell

the last stop is also a beginning point
    on the C at 168th POETRY IS HARD
catches my eye before we depart
    against the reflecting neon signs
as square tiles parallel lives lived
    in a box or cell—we alone the man
& [I] of no significance until he exits—
    the grinding wheels pull away
from 155th—a ghost compartment now
    analogous to time spent in solitary.
i occupied this same mute hush
    when white boy met his living shadow
in a split second on the cold concrete
    bringing to view faces pressed
inside rectangle glass—the aftersound
    resonates loud year after year—
(white boy died from the epistles of dear john)
    appearing at 125th a person is reading
THE ESSENTIAL ETHERIDGE KNIGHT
    on the train today no one reads
& we continue swathed in noise—