96th Street

Dead man on the platform, slouched in the southernmost seat of the southernmost bench. He's covered from head to ankle in a plastic sheet that billows out as my train passes by. Of all the subway cars, of all the doors, the door I am sitting across from opens up so that I have a perfect view of him and the bored cop standing next to him holding a piece of caution tape against the tile wall; I guess they have nowhere to tie that loose end of tape. I can't see any more of the dead man besides his feet, which are out of his shoes, which are filthy and which I take to indicate homelessness or extreme destitution. I stop my embarassing, self-pitying sobbing long enough to look up in horror and look around the train to see if anyone else notices, but they don't, they're in their iPods and their conversations, and the train doors slide closed, and I gape and wonder how this man met his bloodless death. What the fuck is wrong with this city?