There were so many of them

the line stretched out

for uncounted blocks,

its members holding 

themselves

in various postures

of 

gut-shot betrayal,

vein-bulging anger,

curious bewilderment,

heart-lacerated sorrow,

or 

drowned resignation.

He tried to look

each one in the face

(if it was still visible)

and haltingly offered

his croaking, useless regrets,

sometimes cringing

in the embarrassment

of a knifebladed moment,

at others dropping his head

along with theirs, letting

the tears flow in 

twisted remembrance,

begging their pardon,

and reaching his 

well-worn hand

around their misty 

shoulders,

grabbing only air

and speaking only

in a 

monologue.