monroe street, 9 a.m.

there is no mistaking blood
on the sidewalk, if it's fresh
and each time reminds me of the last
and of the city:
people walking
their feet keep moving
in spite of the wounds
and they take the straight paths
whether or not
they have some place to go.

this time, it's a blood trail
just a splash, like a raindrop
every ten paces or so.
(last time was on the bridge,
the splashes were larger,
closer together,
and ended in a pool beneath
the bus bench.)

tiny drops, really
like a bloody nose -
a young man, I'll bet,
walking fast.
they never carry tissues. just let it drip.
it will stop
on its own.
Or, perhaps, it was
the man two seats in front of me last week
who could not stay awake.
full bus, aisle seat, the woman
beside him pressed against the window,
not looking.
he was doubled over his knees,
nodding, and seemed about to land
in the aisle. I hoped hard for a bench
to open up, so he could lean.

And it did, he switched;
now right before me. I could smell
how much he needed a safe place.
he kept jerking upright:
wouldn't even rest his head on the side
of the bus, why? wake with a start,
furiously rubbing his nose, and one eye
and he turned, his hood
sliding part way back, and I saw
the dirt and blood on his skin.
hunted.

but today it was probably some punk
instead; allergies, you know?
no one sees.