The man in the wheelchair wears black
opshop clothes: pilled
sweatshirt, saggy pants.
He has a carton of Coke Zero
between his feet. His hair is cold charcoal
and ash. His thirtyish face is a shattered
crystal. The surfaces of his brow and forehead,
the structures of his nose and chin suggest.
He has a straight sit, calm hands,
patient, intelligent eyes,
a snappy ‘09 haircut
His left ear has three silver hoops
and his long fingers on the joystick
have interesting rings
I consider flirting,
teasing: ‘Can I sit on your lap?’
The train’s packed.
I stand as close
as I can, although I hang my bag
in front of my crotch. His mouth
is level with my navel.
So this is how much I. Like, even if you were
busted up, disabled, paraplegic
I smile and make some small talk.
His mouth-corners hint at sky.
At Perth he gets off,
taoing his identity
through the blind consumers.
I wish him a nice day,
although it’s too late for that.