Hand

In the gray of the subway platform,

bodies pressed close, 

coats wet with melting snow.

At my face, a hand.

It wrapped around the pole,

its nails, curved and sharpened like a cat's,

caked black with dirt. 

It was a weapon, 

a paw with which to slash,

a hand shaped by fear.

Someone lived in danger,

might need to tumble sideways from sleep

and strike--to defend their life 

or their blankets 

or their single coin. 

When I edged my eyes to see whose hand

I found a short, slight man in worn clothes,

a man grown old unsafe.

He saw through his rheumy eyes

a world different from mine.

But don't we all know fear?

need to defend? wake in darkness?

I recognized that face.

—Sarah Webb