“mom,” he says. silence.
“MOM.” she stares ahead. “MOM!!” she
is a zen master.
September 2008
31 posts
she hauls groceries.
a man looks at them, hungry.
she offers him some.
she slumps into a
seat at day’s end, takes off
her shoe, rubs her foot.
she blushes when she
pulls off her headphones, hearing
how loud her songs were.
the driver lines the
trolley up with the stairs, to
guide the blind woman.
two lovers gaze at
each other like they haven’t
yet left bed today.
dad play-punches his
young son, urging him to fight
back. the boy just laughs.
“ma,” a six-year-old
boy says: “do it, or i’ll call
you a bitch again!”
mom puts two toddlers
in one seat, tries to balance
baby on their laps.
my headphone cord brushed
his leg. slowly, coldly, he
sliced me with his eyes.
“then i said,” she tells
her friend, giggling: “shut up, you
dumb oxy-MORON!”
he offers his seat
to a young mom. she glares, like:
“i can handle this.”
she boards with a cup
of coffee in each hand, a
bag under each eye.
i’m in my own world,
then realize the guy ahead
is wielding a gun.
scared passengers dash
back, torn between safety and
curiosity.
“i don’t care about
me,” she says of the crazed man.
“but, god, my baby.”
“he deserved it,” he
says of the guy at gunpoint.
“shouldn’ta messed with ‘im.”
she applies make up.
the trolley bounces. lipstick
drags across her cheek.
he talks about how
he wants to torture kittens:
“y’know, normal guy stuff.”
