Blind Man's Tears

In the daily grind of life's commute,
among this crowd of lonely ones,
unknown and unknowing,
there is nothing so touching
as the tears in a blind man's eyes.

His face, reflected in a subway car's fluorescence
bounces off the walls of glass,
reveals the lines of sorrow--
furrows deep--above twisted brows.
His teeth bared, his lips smiling
in a tortured clown-like way,
he looks right past his image.
He does not see this vision blurred by tears
and by speed of passage along darkened tunnel walls.

Oblivious to the world outside,
he spirals inward with sadness--
a whining whirlwind of soul
rushing through the tunnels with this train.
His storm clouds strengthen.
His life condenses like rain at cool cloud top
and pours from his eyes
such scattered showers as he's never seen.

I see him sobbing, white-tipped cane in hand.

Fertilized by my own rot
and watered by sight of this sightless stranger,
a thought takes root within my soul--
an eternal and answer-less question
in the shape of a twisted vine
shaded and struggling to reach the light.

Where is the God’s mercy?

Copyright 1 February 1996 by Ron Hudson. Previously appeared at Other Voices Poetry International, Volume 5.
Categories: poetry