Sunday Means Forty-Second Street

(an older one)


Kneeling in the Forty-Second street alley,
cord tight above elbow bend,
vein swollen and ready,

Mother, on his arm,
watches and patiently waits.

Sundays, it's always the Square,
flashing sign drawing his eyes
briefly towards heaven.

His church.
She always told him to go.

Hard to remember her clearly now.
Life eats his childhood daily, fogging
memories of a figure in blue, scent
of gardenias in damp air, heels
clattering over hardwood floor.

She would like it that he comes here.
Everybody needs remembrance
of a mother's cool hand.


Pris Campbell
©2003

Published in Lotus Journal, June 2003