Close-Reading

In the noisy light of the New Haven

Train station with

Departures and arrivals flashing and flipping

On the board,

Amid an echoing, rushing blur

Of travelers in the great hall,

You sit on the bench bent

Over reading

The good book.

You follow word by line

In front of your face

Without space for even a finger to point

The way,

With your pink eyes

Myopic,

Almost blind

And long colorless hair,

Like Beethoven at the end of his hearing,

You strain to pick out

Each last word.

Stranded with one disastrous chance.