Fire Victim

Once, boarding the train to New York City, The aisle crowded and all seats filled, I glimpsed An open space—more pushing, stuck in place— And then saw why: a man, face peeled away, Sewn back in haste, skin grafts that smeared like wax Spattered and frozen, one eye flesh-filled, smooth, One cold eye toward the window. Cramped, shoved hard, I, too, passed up the seat, the place, and fought on Through to the next car, and the next, but now I wonder why the fire that could have killed him Spared him, burns scarred over; if a life Is what he calls this space through which he moves, Dark space we dared not enter, and what fire Burns in him when he sees us move away.