Subway Pome #61: a note to the person standing in the doorway

There is nothing to undo you:
airhorns,
ski poles,
spiked, unwieldy sculptures,
babies in strollers,
wheelchairs,
crutches,
“excuse me”,
a polite,
Ghandi-like
suggestion
that you step
inside of the car,

in the way,
a spray of urine
the way tigers do,

the door to the subway opens
and you stand there,
planted,
lumpy,
aloof,
the door now
only half open
or
you
turn sideways,
a stubborn booger
nesting under the crusty rim of a nostril
refusing to clear the passage.