The doors labor open to the heaped
clamor of commute—conductor’s
drawl & static, the PA leaking
crackled locales &, below that, more urgently,
a metallic rasp & chafe—kneeling there,
a man on a make-shift contraption
(ply-wood base, shopping cart wheels) pulls off
the painstaking work of carting himself
across the gapped threshold. Swaddled
in a blanket—someone’s beat-up
woolen blue—he wheels his bulk
on fisted knuckles to the pole’s brief
mooring. That’s when the blanket
falls & what’s left of his legs
pokes through like stout elbows.
By then there’s no need
for pageantry, but when he reaches
the car’s middle (there’s no one,
now, who isn’t watching) he begins,
gently as his weather-worn voice will allow,
to sing. Nothing intricate or too
creative, this unadorned loop
of a song’s just enough to contain
the four recurring lyrics—I got
no legs. He lifts his eyebrows
like a choirboy, distinctly
proud, before repeating
the simple fact of it—I got no
legs. And as he sings, he rows himself
forward like the song’s scant exhalation,
& not his blackened fingers,
propelled him. Imagine the intricate
travelogue of those wheels—
stippled asphalt, cobble, curb
& impossible staircase—the endless
caterwaul of friction a sort of kindred
music to him. Slick linoleum rumble
as he threads through the aisle,
clutches the handle, hazards
the gap to the car in front.
We don’t even need to watch
to see how the blanket drops,
the exertion of retrieval, the routine
culminating in four unreeled syllables
that let you forget any touch
of affectation. Because, showbiz
aside, he’s answered fate not
with complaint or lamentation,
but with song (& let’s not pretend—oh yes,
it’s coming: there’s something out there
with our names on it): & we all
need a song that says mercy. Song
that says O veiled & fathomless
city, strangely bejeweled by such
sundered & dazzling creatures,
hear our simple pleas because
there’s a legless man in the next
car & I can’t stop feeling
how our bodies speed
through the space his just held,
how he’s the part of us
that’s gotten there first.
From Tongue & Groove. Copyright © 2007 by Stephen Cramer. Used with permission of the University of Illinois Press.