Seen on the Northern Line

Look! You see my shape
across the one-way gangway,
unlike you, without a converse.

I meet your eye, reach out
and your eye doesn’t dye
but it fixes me all the same.

Look! You glance; I smile.
Look! You whisper; yes, it’s me.
Look! The circle tightens.

I frighten you
and cannot laugh
and will not cry.

I too am amputated.
I, an object, look for meaning,
feeling deep, immense and helpless.