Poems in Transit

An Away

The weighted
awakening of an afternoon nap
to the dark blank of evening –
body blind.
Struck by headlights reversing into my room three storeys
up,
and up from below,
children’s chatter

Mommy, mommy, she must say
(It’s in Polish)
Mamo, Mamo, when are we coming to Granny’s again?
What’s for supper?
Why is there no colour in the night?
Naprawde?

Anchor her voice to sleep –
so much is weightless in a country where
you don’t speak the language

that when something
means
you hold on as hard as you can.

am new york

free morning daily
history in the making

this monumental
i watched my abc
want to read my poetry on the train
can’t help guilt

this ordinary extraordinary ordinary
when my credit card won’t work
and we have fought
and the first black president of the United States was elected

and then the beggar moving from car to car

you’ve got your back to me and i have my head down and
am i crying for you or for me,
and if for me than not for you for me for us
but

a dollar and a tear, won’t you?

CR

Judith Browne

Judith Browne sides with Paul Gardener: a poem, like a painting, is never finished, only pausing in interesting places. At the behest of a friend and mentor, she agreed to publish two such poems, and let them be any two. Part of her wants no business in them, and so she leaves them wailing at your doorstep, asking for a home. She continues to live and work in New York and write about nearly anywhere, everywhere in the world.