Subway Pocket Poem

Four middle aged men enter the car,
hard hats in one hand, flashlights
in the other. They wear white
and orange striped slickers, drop
into seats without words. They sit
with legs spread, heads back and eyes
shut. I watch lines of sweat slide
down their necks. Broadway-Lafayette.

Three of them nod, get off.
The fourth hunches over, reaches
into his back pocket. Fingers unroll
a lean magazine and his eyes become
lit trees on Christmas Eve as he flips
through glossy pictures of electric trains.