Death Takes the M4

Is a subway car the place to ponder mortality? Is there any better? Maybe one, a bus stop, preferably on a Sunday afternoon. We resume our response to the MTA's Poetry in Motion series with David Ferry's "At the Bus Stop; Eurydice,"

Harry Callahan, Detroit (1943)

The old lady's face,
Who knows whose it was?
The bus slid by me,
Who in the world knows me?

She was amazed, amazed.
Can death really take me?
The bus went away.
It took the old lady away.

What is the quintessential subway rider's question? "Who in the world knows me?" is as good a candidate as any.