Rush Hour

Rush Hour on a Thursday Afternoon in Penn Station

When I hear MOM in the middle of Penn Station
I know the mom is me.

My briefcased daughter holds her dry cleaning
wrapped in blue plastic like a blue delphinium
bridal bouquet as she navigates the rush.

She is going downtown.
Home to her boyfriend and cats.
I am schlepping uptown to a poetry workshop
suburbia tattooed on my supermarket shopping bag
poetry potmanteau

She picks me out of the herd.
Her MOM a question mark:

Will you play with me?
Will you read me a story?
Will you leave me alone?

My impulse is to run into Kmart
buy a coloring book, crayons
make a space on the ground and color with my daughter,
insist the city walks around us.

She does not attempt to break through the roundup,
she waves, motions she’ll call,
blows a kiss that a bum steals and swallows.
 

Todays poetry contest submission was written by Vicki Iorio.

 

Do you think it could possibly be one of the best new poems of 2013?

 

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