1
The voiceless wear scarves pulled tight
across their mouths, like the woman
on the commuter train
with the huge eyes and olive skin.
No English. Somehow she conveyed
that she had paid before getting on,
but she had no ticket. The conductor said
he wanted her name and address
so the railroad could send her a bill.
Her eyes went wild; the conductor 
was wearing a uniform.
She shook her head: no English!
Her eyes above the muffler
darted from corner to corner
with the frantic speed of any small thing
that’s trapped and cannot find an exit.

2
Sometimes the voiceless decide
to shield their eyes. At McDonald’s
a man’s hard gaze slides sideways
to check me out, and when I turn
the eyes go blank, freeze forward,
agates that have seen nothing.
On the bus it happens again,
different hair and clothes, same eyes;
secretive antennae
darting and gone, bars drawn
across the windows of the soul.
I stare at two missing children
on the poster above his head.
Their eyes are straight on me,
as if I were the camera
and trust still possible.

3
I’ve seen one of the voiceless
borrow the voice of the saxophone.
He stands on a downtown street
on a wintry, dull afternoon
blowing his heart out. His heart
slides down the tube of his instrument
and comes out in a long, sweet note,
excruciating and breathless,
like the harrowing pleasure of sex.
A voice made human, a language
all of us, shoppers, browsers,
and purse snatchers, understand.