waiting for the max

she leans against a post
waiting for the downtown train
puffs her cigarette
in short nervous bursts
pushes a web of blonde hair
from her once-pretty
addiction-pocked face
pale blue eyes darting
furtively seek some escape
brush mine
for the briefest encounter
I feel her wet tears
against my cheekbone
taste their salt on my tongue
I want to say to her
we are all drowning, my dear
as if this cliché
might be some comfort
as if those eyes
given a hold
would not pull
even a swimming man under

© 2005, duane poncy