To a Grunting Man on the Train

Your pain is too easily seen. The creases that pocket your eye Are comfortable crags for your grief To run down, a grove where you sigh With contented relief Once the public grimace has been. The unsmile you flash like a backstage pass To our sympathy is not the same As the frayed hem mouth of the sick, The unseen disgust, the communal shame, Of the woman alone whose face is licked Smooth by the sweat at the last.