On The Metro

A little poem about an experience on a subway

There was a man in the Subway
His back arched over, playing accordion
He came to me
I gave him two euro for his troubles

He asked me, "Italian?"
"I speak it," I replied
But he insisted, "Are you Italian?"
"I am," I corrected myself

He played a tune,
One I'd heard before
But when he sang
I could not repeat his words

He waited for my part
But I only stared

I know this song
In another life
But here and now
The tune laid dead
No spirit to fill the skeletal notes

The man left me
weary-eyed with his head down
As I was standing
I waited for my stop
With poetic irony on my mind

I hold no home I call my own
A foreigner in my own land
And a well-adjusted citizen
In a land foreign to me

I hope one day
I'll belong
To somewhere or to someone