The hardest part of a poem is always
The start.
The saddest part of a journey is often
The journey itself.
A woman in a hijab waits in the subway
The whoosh of air as a train passes by,
Rustling the edge of her scarf on her soft face.
Posters on the windows of the train mere colors as they pass
Blues and greens and lots of yellow and white, and red
Red, the color she left behind,
Not red like a sunset, but Red.
Red like the lights of an ambulance,
Red like the cheeks of a wailing child.
Red like the blood-streets and sidewalks. Red.
The lights of another passing train flicker by.
Her hijab offers no protection, no barrier is formed between the soft fabric and
Faces lit and then hidden
Eyes shine momentarily and then retreat to dark.
Eyes she’s afraid to meet.
Faces she has learned not to look back at.
The color of her skin disallows contact.
The happiest part of a journey is quite often the arrival.
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