For hours every day
He just sits there
Watching people join him,
Watching people leave him.
The bench he sits on
Is in the center
With poles on either side.
Subway after subway train
People sit and join
Then leave him there.
Sketch pad in hand
He traverses their faces,
Each a perfect picture,
Life is in them.
Everyone is a picture.
Everyone is a story.
He draws page after page
Sketches face after face
Capturing them in time.
The subway purrs on
Then releases its breath.
People join him again.
Turning, he faces the
Bald man sitting down
He drafts the man’s face.
It’s so unique.
His eyebrows thoughtfully wrinkled
Another story to draw.
“What’re you thinking about?”
He asks the man.
“Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering.”
The artist's tilted head
And his furrowed brow
Wonder at the man's
Cold, closed, calloused response.

The doors gasp again
People stand to leave.
The bald man stands
And faces the artist.
He coldly pulls the trigger.
The artist calmly slumps
Accepting of his fate.
He can do nothing.

For years he’s drawn
Asked people their stories.

It wasn’t very loud
Putting the gun away
He exits the train
Leaving amidst the throng
Another picture in time.