Face

I could only see the edges of his,
only something grey like a foam of vomit
that could have been a foam of vomit
between the heavy copse of dark-panted legs.
Passersby. No, that was my role passing,
they had stopped. I don’t know if he was dead.

I had stood an extra minute in the CVS, paid
an extra dime for the crinkling bag that swung
its handle thin and biting on my fingers, two too cold
colas in it, tearing through. But I was only
in there three minutes. No man was lying
still on the sidewalk when I went in, no quick forest
had sprung up around him like
a lesser Birnam yet. But now I could not see
the faces for the trees and I passed it all,
not turning my head and steering where I stared.

Only a block later remembering the studies
about crowds how they do nothing for the dying
but watch assuming someone else will fix it all.