On the A-train to school,
Hard plastic seats were cruel,
Clung onto Darren’s thigh,
A reminder of days when things went awry.

Freshly purple bruise displayed,
Wounds his father's anger made.
Darren closed his swollen eyes,
Home three hours past curfew's ties.

Creeping up the stairs,
Gently, delicately, unawares,
Clouded by alcohol's harsh embrace,
His father’s disappointed face.

At the top, his house did rumble,
With echoes of their nightly jumble.

The train continued its rumbling sway,
Next stop: 67th avenue on this day,
Slowing to a halt with grace,
Two seats down, Peter held his space.

Clutching his aching stomach tight,
Wheezing with all his might,
He repositioned the oxygen tank with care,
And touched the locket his late wife used to wear.

Gifted to him in days long of old,
A precious memory, forever to hold.

Next stop: 63rd Drive-Rego Park we go,
Adam scanned through emails, his face a shadow,
Finding darkening thick fog on the screen,
Weather to report, a world unseen.

A distinctive skunky smell, so pungent and bold,
Drifted through the subway, a story untold,
The odor itched Adam’s delicate nose,
Across from him, a teenager in repose.

Puffed smoky clouds into the air,
Adam dug his head into his notes with care,

Next stop: Woodhaven Boulevard-Queens Mall arrives,
The pungent odor lingering, the moment contrives,
Peter traced the scent with curious eyes,
Spotted Darren, filled with surprise.

Guilt brewed in Peter's belly, strong and keen,
He reached toward Darren, a plea unseen,
“Quit smoking,” he said with heartfelt plea,
“You see this oxygen tank, a life I need.”

Darren jolted up, a spark of realization ignited,
Noticing disappointment in eyes now united,
With those of his father, growing old and gray,
He grabbed his lighter, letting his old ways sway.

On the train, passengers observed, lost in thought,
Wondering how their choices could be caught,
One girl reasoned, “Oh, there’s at least 20 other people here,”
Another wondered, “What’s everyone else going to hear?”

An older man pondered, “It’s none of my business anyway,”
A boy by the door thought, “My stop’s next, so, okay.”

Adam observed too, torn by his own strife,
Turmoil warring with his own inner life.
Options weighed heavy, in his heart they swirled,
To help or safeguard, his conscience unfurled.

Dark clouds of impulse threatened to overtake,
But Adam decided, for goodness' sake.
To stand up for the old man, frail and weak,
Who couldn't endure the punches, so to speak.

Darren threw his fists, fiery and fierce,
Molten lava's rage, a tempest to pierce,
Adam slid in front, taking the hits with grace,
Shielding Peter's face in that confined space.

The next stop is Elmhurst Avenue, the end of the line,
Through blurry vision, Adam saw the passengers' design,
Standing back, recording, with faces alight,
Snickering at grief that wasn't their fight.

Darren gathered his materials and fled the fray,
Into the station, like lightning, he made his way.

Adam's eyes burned, spots of disarray,
Splattered across his fair skin, a price to pay.
Overtaken by fatigue, a sense of gloom,
He collapsed onto the floor in that dimly lit room.

But as he fell, his eyes met Peter's caring gaze,
A helping hand extended, in a grateful daze.
Peter hoisted him back up, their spirits intertwined,
The gratitude in Peter's pupils, one of a special kind.

The train pulled into the Grand Avenue New-Town station,
Peter picked up his oxygen tank, a heartfelt revelation.
A lone tear shedding from his eye,
Yearning to share, for hope would never die.

That even in the darkest of subway lines' strife,
Goodness still lived, and it thrived.
A beacon of light, amidst the storm's great might,
In the depths of the city's heart, shining so bright.