ODE TO THE MAN IN THE SUBWAY WHO'S SO USED TO SLEEPING THERE HE'S LOST ALL FIBROUS QUALITIES IN HIS NECK SO THAT HIS HEAD KIND OF RESTS IN HIS LAP

It seems as though you've been here for a long time. A curious thing; noticing you. I couldn't help but wonder how your heart beats, how your lungs expand. There is a touch of incivility in my brief gaze. What happened to put you here? Here, not so much meaning here socio-economic life perspective-wise, but more, here as in in this oddly contorted position. Your only reasonably weathered Yankees cap doesn't suggest complete rock-bottom brokeness. Is this an unavoidable medical condition, or is it a result of years of mental and physical decline? I don't mean to probe you with these silent questions, you sleep so peacefully among all this noise, but your particular contortion is, without doubt, absolutely spectacular. Perhaps there are brighter days ahead yet for you sir. An internationally known performance contortionist, or a secret no-ventilation-shaft-to-small kind of secret spy. Perhaps better careers suit you still and possibly this is all just old news; a performance spy, journeying to perform your next act of televised performance disguised international espionage. Only you can know for sure; a gentleman of many dark secrets and romances and secret dark romances no doubt. At any rate, I salute you sir, as I pass, I salute you.