Subway sevens pile up like cracked shoes,

skirt platforms. Eyeballing perilous hems

over paperback walling, our hero’s

pageant confidence leavens. Part of him’s

grateful: upskirt instants, beauties who tread

lead roles on the steps. Part’s opposed: conquest-

daydreams turn, sour esteem; but the ding

that emits, pealing of pole and gold ring,

beautiful it’s. It’s contact, truly wed,

and still he’s touched by dull knee and stray breast

at once… Duly dutiful, cooly true,

he wonders aloud, “Who is the villain?

Me? The women? Or the barreling train?”

In any case, he’s his wife to rescue.