Red Line to White Flint
Carroll Lee Allman

I saw a brave man,
alone.
He wore a neat, brown suit
and shoes that shined expensively.

His hair was wavy,
kempt,
almost totally white,
and his face was smooth,
unlined.

He chewed gum
and wore a wedding band.

With eyes slightly worried
and blue,
focusing on nothing,
he stood
(remembering how danger looks?)
On his arm, an umbrella.
In his hand,
a long white cane,
jointed and collapsible,
its tip painted red.

At his stop he knew.
The door opened;
he hesitated.

But the car was nearly empty;
two passengers exited carefully.

Quickly, tapping his cane,
as if feeling his way
with his fingers
on the train's metal floor,
he walked decisively,
then haltingly strode,
through the open door,
as the chimes signaled
imminent, mechanical obstruction.