Classic Poem

When someone steps extremely gingerly
onto the subway there is a mystery

for our times, it is a little
pennant flown between the man and the state

and if he should exit at a very
bourgeoisie stop he slows us down

lanyard with an ID card
hanged from the end of it

shoes made in a Chinese prison
whose colors we are free to choose

there is something in a thin stream of air
on a day made huge with wind

tousling the half-red trees
in the park

that is straight out of a book
about the revolution

but most of it is a pressure
inversion that suddenly moves

all the air in the area
the spiritual element is

a pennant flown between the air
and the lips of the sleepers

and when a rat sidles up to you
on the platform

dressed immaculately his fur shining
there is something in his eyes

that will not let you read
your book which is all you wanted