Silence Shouting
by Odin Roark

Routine is our nemesis.

The daily boarding at Westchester,
The debarking at Grand Central,
Knows well the slowing down
The elevated train experiences
Passing through a Harlem station.

Before the station,
Rows of stacked,
Broken,
Cracked,
Dollar Store-draped windows
Cascade like sunken eye sockets,
Bloodshot,
Half closed,
Blind and moist,
Mocking New York’s humidity and heat,
Along with society’s indifference.

A few remain intact,
Their pull-blinds bearing
Spray-painted messages;
Some wishing passengers well,
Others wishing them dead.
A number wishing…

Once was seen an emaciated arm
Reaching through blinds
Behind a missing window,
Perhaps testing for rain;
Perhaps hoping someday
All would be washed clean away,
Forever exiling poverty.

Such windows however,
Remain left behind,
Becoming opportunities missed,
Commuter-reality denied,
Paying little attention
To the silence shouting
“Do something.”

But…

A check of the time
Usually proves the journey’s passage
Is behind schedule.

Awareness is made to wait… again.

“Next stop, Grand Central Station!”