I sometimes catch passengers’ eyes.
They linger on me for a second.
And then they move,
back inwards into their masters’ skulls.
And I’m left wondering:
Would eyes stay longer
if I was handsome,
if I was smart, flashy advertisement,
created to impress.
But I’m just a poem,
left on wall of a subway cart,
written for many,
read only by few.
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