Another poem from a good friend from Father Michel Quoist.
The Subway
The last ones squeeze
in,
The door rolls shut.
The subway rumbles off,
I can't move.
I am no longer an
individual but a crowd,
A crowd that moves in
one piece like jellied soup in its can.
A nameless and
indifferent crowd, probably far from you, Lord.
I am one with the crowd,
and I see why it's sometimes hard for me to rise higher.
The crowd is
heavy-leaden soles on my feet, my slow feet-a crowd too large for my
overburdened skiff.
Yet, Lord, I have no
right to overlook these people; they are my brothers,
And I cannot save
myself, alone.
Lord, since you wish it,
I shall head for heaven "in the subway."
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