Subway Restraint (Round 2)

Let's workshop this poem about a clash between a black man late to the most important job interview of his life and protesters who will not let him or any other person off the subway train.

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Subway Restraint

No, do not jump right to throat daggering 
that lead cunt shrieking with arms spread
to restrict you and the bodies behind you
from exiting the split door of the subway.
Your first move, seductive as it no doubt is, 
should not be to impale her vein-flared neck
with your “Urban Pal” pocket push dagger— 
its blade just over two inches and serrated 
for a repair-thwarting bleed-out pullback 
(and cheap, for whatever it might be worth
to say, on Bladehq.com). Restrain yourself.
Let the seething fury of your stolen big day
mount as the chanting mass behind her— 
“No! One! Gets! Off!”—hammer-fists away
any bold hand trying to pry open the panels.
Let it foment even as her forehead rammings,
right into your heart, grow more aggressive 
with your futile insistence to be set free. 

Give your defense attorney at least a little
to work with! Try to lock in eye-contact
with that one officer in the sea of phones 
raised, several of their owners screeching 
at you “Don’t you fucking touch her!”—
a baiting formula as transparent, of course,
as bed moans of “Don’t you dare cum in me!”
Consider first pleading to the raging horde
after the white officer, sensibly fearing—
even though you are darker than chestnut—
that career-shattering r-word in later press,
fails on cue to safeguard your free passage.  

Take on a pitiful tone of a meek victim. 
The tone, no, is not out of any realistic hope
to draw forth compassion effectual enough 
for your release. It is to bait them. Crowds
lust to stomp the weak. It is out of a desire,
moreover, to increase your coiled energy 
for lashing out at what will thereby grow
beyond a ramming wall against free passage
to your once-in-a-lifetime interview—grow
into a pristine mirror of your patheticness 
(smash-beckoning, however much it reflects
calculated performance). Plead your urgency.
Explain to them how crucial the interview is,
but at a decibel under their own for the sake
of frustrating yourself further. Or lie and say 
your wife is in labor. Scan the officer’s face
once again. Scan back to the young zombies,
mostly white and desperate for purpose 
in the potential virality of doing what is said
to be “for your own good” as “a black male 
in a society that has declared total war 
on black bodies.” Doing what? Protesting 
the death of a lunatic whose unruliness 
and death threats to subway passengers 
landed him in the chokehold of a marine 
who received cheers from black commuters 
in danger but death threats from antiracists
in cyberspace. Scan their faces. Try to reach
any real eyes beyond their algorithm lenses.
Even though the race card is already pulled 
just looking at you, vocalize your blackness.
None of it will make a difference, of course. 
But cameras are rolling for court scrutiny. 

So what move do you make from here,
something to give your attorney more 
to work with than just the black card,
before going with a scorched-earth strike—
like sticking her with a poisoned syringe
or even just a brutal headbutt into her nose?
Perhaps pivot off your meek presentation
with a surprise snatch of one of the phones.
And then as you dash into the train’s recesses 
hypnotize yourself to think your sole mission
is to smash the phone into as many fragments 
as possible. Even if this does nothing the help
the free flow of bodies, at least you can claim
this victory. Yes, that is too small of a victory 
to assuage your apoplectic blood pressure. 
But perhaps the owner will chase you down, 
which will provide a chance to use the dagger 
if any hands are placed on you.—No, rewind.
 
Start back to the door. Make sure you have 
a belt can of bear mace, the highest Scoville 
you can get (five million) and whose stream 
extends over thirty feet. After sternum rams
get harder, and after no officer helps despite 
your pleas of due diligence, unleash the can 
right into her face—even slipping in a couple
of can punches—and then over everyone. 
Refuse to free the button as the doors close
just wide enough for you to empty it upon
the underground space. Let the doors close 
for protection against your caustic fog. 
The dagger can then come into action—
and righteously so, given the interview—
if any sleeper agent tries to restrain you.

Yes, you could just hold the dagger out—
or, even better, a bleach-filled syringe—
from the headbutted spot on your chest
and walk forward. How will she stop that?
But her friends would hit away the device. 
The bear mace strategy seems best, then.

This poem is unpublished