There we were, the smash of us in wait for a train in those tubes-through-the-earth the 
French dug so long in the past, & at the edge of the quai they’d put in new glass doors to keep us 
safe in our wait to go home, but when the train came we saw that it, too, was jammed—fish in a can
—& you could just smell the hot breath & stale clothes, all of us mushed there—half of these folks 
sure to get off, but none did & there was a surge & that stuff scares me, so I stepped to the side & the 
guy at my left tried to get on, but the horn-to-warn blared & the train door closed & the keep-us-
safe shield snapped shut & there he was, caught half-way, train soon to take off, & those of us at 
the glass yanked back the doors, snatched him free.
	Breaths let out, the man nods, thanks us, but this was not his day. Next train comes, packed
—no one gets off, crush of crowd, the guy braves it, steps in—but not quite all the way, train door 
slams & he’s in but now his coat’s caught & we on the quai see more, more of that coat pulled out by 
the doors as they shut tight—but can’t see him, who must be pegged there at the doorjamb, 
scarecrowed—can’t move his arms, the look on his face a madman’s look, the fear.
	Now the train pulls out & inch by inch we see the coat drawn in—much talk in that car for 
sure as those at his sides tug at the coat, but on the quai we hear none of it—just wheels on rails, & 
we laugh, a crowd-laugh, a fine thing to hear, just as those in the car must have laughed, too, when it 
was done, when all of him was in, red-faced, but in.
	The rest of us still there, keen to head home, tell what we saw that day.
	But not once would that tale—though it might have held the words poor fool—not once mock 
him, for we know we are he, & it was just dumb luck that kept us that day from caught then caught 
twice in the vise of what keeps us safe.
	We are good. I’ve come this far, war to more war, but claim it still: in the main, we are good. 
No one in that tin can of a train car knew that man, yet inch by inch they drew him in, freed his 
arms & no doubt slapped him on the back one-two-three to say You’re OK, the wheels the gears the 
pressed jets of air will come for you, pin you, try to suck you through, but we’re here: we’re here for you.