Leaves crackling underfoot in autumn’s crush
remind me of the press and push and rush
of city undergrounds. The seasons change,
and in those subway tunnels a vast range

of people mixes without looking up.
Each one’s cocooned as if in tiny cup
of silent world of cell phone, reverie,
or headlines that command two, maybe three

looks. Look at them, those busy people smashed
together, all communication trashed.
An older grandma in babushka taps
her cane while children giggle. Baseball caps

turned backward on tall boys, tattoos on girls,
a lady prim and proper, blue suit, pearls,
a wrinkled man in  jeans and dirty shirt,
the boy who sees a girl and tries to flirt,

the teen connected to her radio,
the workman in his overalls. Name? Joe.
A mother holds her crying baby tight.
A hoodlum eyes her, keeping her in sight. 

These residents of subway cars don’t ask
a thing, just “Get me there.” It seems a mask
dims faces, keeps expressions underground.
Where are these crowds and crowds of people bound?

To work for minim wage? To tend the sick?
To practice sports, throw, pass, or run, or kick?
Brown leaves from autumn oaks and elms fall down
as lonely people travel town to town.