I connect at 14th St. (Revised)

Lost and distraught
E-ward bound,
ten paces away
a man,
an Asian man,
enters the train:
with jet black
hair and a
jet black
stride,
carrying crinkly
plastic bags.
Twenty third
street stop
head drops
to hand,
thirty fourth,
forehead
to chin.
Forty second
street passes
he wipes his eyes,
oranges tumble,
forty ninth st.,
it's mine.